


Anthony J. Crowley: Terminally Thirsty Stormchaser and All-around Demonic Fuck-up

by samvelg



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Angelic/Demonic Sexuality Is Weird, Angels are Terrifying (Good Omens), Author is Working Through Some Things, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Body Worship, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Discorporation Kink, Crowley Has A Divinity Kink, Crowley Has A Storm Kink, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eldritch, Getting Together, In case you were worried, Inappropriate Use of Biblical Canon, Inappropriate Use of Hymns, Inappropriate Use of a Sceptre, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), It's discussed as happening in the past but that's it, M/M, Masochist Crowley (Good Omens), No actual discorporations take place in the fic, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Oral Sex, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), References To Past Temporary Character Death, Seraph Crowley (Good Omens), Storm Chasing, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), True Form Sex, Vaginal Sex, eldritch porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samvelg/pseuds/samvelg
Summary: That which doesn't kill you can make youreallyweird in bed, and for a demon like Crowley who can be messily discorporated with no real lasting consequences to himself that line in the sand extends even further.Over the years he deals with the trauma of the Fall and his unrequited love for a certain beautiful angelic bastard in perhaps not the most healthy of ways, but Crowley is very much of the opinion that when the alternative is fucking up your relationship with your best friend forever you get creative, even if that means getting off by letting yourself be discorporated by natural disasters. It's not an ideal situation, but after pining for said best friend for almost as long as the world has existed, trying to work up the courage to confess that he loves him is bad enough, let alone that he would really like it if the angel did some appalling holy things to his decidedly unholy person.It's a dark and stormy night a week or so after the averted End of the World when Aziraphale finds out.Written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 98
Kudos: 416
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Holy freaking crap I can't believe that I'm finally sharing this. I've been working on this since joining the Good Omens Big Bang in shit, was it August or September last year, and it's been one hell of an experience. I've gotten to know so many amazing writers and artists who are just the loveliest human beings through our discord servers, and they've been so supportive all the way of me getting this glorious monstrosity done so the biggest thank you to all of them.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: this is a weird fic. While it actually isn't all that dark it's tagged Dead Dove: Do Not Eat for a reason so _please_ for the love of Somebody read the tags, and be aware that while there isn't any graphic depictions of Crowley's incredibly problematic sexual habits they are discussed and explored. If you need anything else tagged or some clarification on things just leave a note in the comments and I'll do my best to check back regularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy freaking crap I can't believe that I'm finally sharing this. I've been working on this since joining the Good Omens Big Bang in shit, was it August or September last year, and it's been one hell of an experience. I've gotten to know so many amazing writers and artists who are just the loveliest human beings through our discord servers, and they've been so supportive all the way of me getting this glorious monstrosity done so the biggest thank you to all of them.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: this is a weird fic. While it actually isn't all that dark it's tagged Dead Dove: Do Not Eat for a reason so _please_ for the love of Somebody read the tags, and be aware that while there isn't any graphic depictions of Crowley's incredibly problematic sexual habits they are discussed and explored. If you need anything else tagged or some clarification on things just leave a note in the comments and I'll do my best to check back regularly.

Sometimes when it all got to be too much, when the age-old battle between Good and Evil being fought on the battlefield of his bones made him feel so tired he considered just going to sleep and never waking up again, Crowley liked to chase storms.

There was a whole bevy of humans who had picked it up from him over the years, the kind of wonderfully reckless idiots who drove headfirst into hurricanes just to see what it feels like while armed only with video cameras in order to prove it to themselves later when the adrenaline ran out that yes, they really were there. It wasn’t something which he intended to catch on and he very much doubted they had the exact same motivations he did, but there was something so beautifully _human_ about it all so he didn’t mind.

Tornados in Death Valley, monsoons in Taiwan, cyclones and thunderstorms and tsunamis from Honduras to Indonesia, over the years since Eden Crowley had loved them all[1]. It might have seemed reckless and it was, but nothing short of Holy Water or a good Old Testament smiting could actually kill him with any kind of permanence, and there was something about the wildness of nature unleashed on the world which simultaneously terrified him, thrilled him and made him feel less alone.

There'd been a lot of occasions over the millennia when he’d teetered on the brink of discorporation and plenty where he toppled over and took the express route back to Hell, but the only times he hadn't done his level best to fight or tempt or trick his way into narrowly avoiding it was when it wasn't because of the humans but that which they decided at some point to call an act of God. The first time had been as much about not wanting to stick around on Earth while it was boring and unpleasantly wet as it was punishment for his own sins, though he'd never admit it out loud if anyone asked. But ever since allowing himself to slip under the floodwaters in Mesopotamia along with all the humans condemned partly by his own actions, there was nothing else which made him feel as alive as dying did.

Conversely, it had honestly been an accident with the lightning[2].

It had been more curiosity than anything really, as well as most of a barrel of mediocre wine which had made him a giddy mixture of apathetic and recklessly curious, which meant it made perfect sense to fly up onto the highest peak of the Zagros Mountains in the middle of a storm just to see what would happen. But after he’d woken up later in a damp crevice - sore and singed and more hungover than he'd ever been in his entire existence - there had been a jagged, branching red scar running from his shoulder all the way down to his feet. The path the lightning had taken through his body looked like the roots of a great tree, connecting him to the very Earth like he belonged there, and had tingled like the bright resonance of distant church bells to the touch.

As it turned out when you were more occult energy shaped vaguely like a human than actually human, getting struck by lightning was neither fatal not entirely unpleasant, and for Crowley it had been the closest thing to divine rapture he'd felt since his Fall. It might have seemed masochistic[3] but being able to see physical proof that for one blissful, overwhelming moment he'd been at the exact point where the heavens had met the earth? Indescribable.

Losing the scar when he was finally discorporated by a particularly cranky mob during the Black Plague who did not appreciate his suggestions regarding the health benefits of sanitation was disappointing to say the least, and when he was eventually sent back up to earth with a shiny new corporation sans scars which he then had to break in all over again, it made him decide to try harder to avoid being killed (on purpose or otherwise) and save the purely recreational discorporations for special occasions[4]. Mainly because he never wanted a repeat of being questioned by Beelzebub in the aftermath of his three month bender post-The Rome Incident in 41 BC about why the Reason For Discorporation he'd written on his latest round of requisition forms had been 'sexual misadventures'[5].

So these days he mostly kneels on remote mountaintops, touching himself while the rain pours down his bare skin and thunder crashes from the heavens like judgement, and thinks about Aziraphale.

Introducing all the strange, messy human sexual impulses into the self-indulgence rotation had been a game changer for all that it was (as mentioned) very strange and messy. Much like sleep, it certainly wasn't something which came naturally at first, but that had never stopped Crowley before in his pursuit of his own particular brand of recreational depravity, and he certainly wasn't going to break his winning streak of triumphing over the factory settings of his corporation with _orgasms_ of all things.

Even now, though, he wonders if perhaps some metaphysical wires got crossed while he was training himself to understand and enjoy it in the way he wanted to, that there had been consequences to all the time spent reinforcing the connections between his trueform and his corporation to send and receive stimuli in a way which was enjoyable for both while simultaneously engaging in overly sexualised _l’appel du vide_. Angels had an equivalent of course[6], because they are made of love and made to love and therefore it was only natural that demons did as well. Both because they refused to not be able to do anything which angels could if they had any say in the matter, and because after their Rebellion had failed in such spectacular fashion they had invented the concept of fucking the pain away purely in self defence[7].

Crowley had faint memories of the ethereal way of going about things which had been nice enough[8], and even memories of the more occult approach which were considerably more harrowing. Like a lot of other demons he'd taken part in the post-Fall, team-building pain orgies, which in the early days were sometimes the only way to feel anything at all except for the gaping emptiness where their connection to the Almighty and the Heavenly Host used to be. He had quickly decided it wasn't for him once he'd seen two former Virtues so preoccupied with tearing the other part that eventually all that had been left was a decidedly unvirtuous pile of twitching, furious ectoplasm. He'd even given it a try with humans over the years, the very few individuals who were so interesting and magnetic that they caught his eye, and of course as a demon he occasionally had to for work which was always awkward as Hell. But it never quite sat right with him how wide the chasm of understanding and experience between them could be when they only had a few short decades on this beautiful and terrible Earth, while he’d lived long enough to see every human being who had come before them return to dust, just as he would them if he let himself get attached[9].

It felt, Crowley had decided in 2013[10], not unlike being propositioned by an 18-year-old. One who was on their first big night out after finally becoming legal, and very determined to prove to the world at large just how adult they now were. Technically speaking, it was all above board and wouldn't be the kind of thing which would get him in any kind of trouble with either a Lower Authority or even whatever the human laws surrounding such things were at present, but there was enough of a grey area there that it made him (and most responsible adult types) uncomfortable. Crowley didn't kill kids and he sure as Heaven didn't fuck them either, no matter how into the idea the human in question might be, but while that was easy enough to shut down when the human was on the younger side, having to explain to a greying, middle-aged merchant on the prowl for an accomodating twink that there didn't yet exist a word sufficient enough to properly describe the level of cradle-robbing which would be happening if Crowley were to actually get off with him (and how it wouldn't be on the part of who they were expecting) was always a pain in his immortal arse.

This didn't stop them from trying, of course. As time marched ever on Crowley had borne witness to the rise and fall of empires and civilizations alike, all the incandescent beauty and haunting depravity which humanity was capable of, and all the while the seemingly never-ending parade of lovely, awful, utterly insane humans continued to hit on him like it was going out of style.

It certainly made his job easier, but at what cost? It was always awkward when they wouldn’t give up on their attempts to bed him - to say nothing of those who for Satan only knows what reason wanted an actual relationship with him - and sometimes he just wanted to snap that unless they were secretly a quasi-immortal celestial/occult being in general or a particularly hedonistic angel in particular they had no chance in Heaven (or even Hell for that matter). It was all just too much work for brief enjoyment, which more often than not made him feel weirdly guilty afterwards, and so despite being generally seen as something of a treat in most of the times and places he passed through, the reality was that Crowley really didn’t get laid an awful lot.

So with all of this in mind, when it is observed that it’s going to be a dark and stormy night, this is for Crowley less the precursor to a ghost story or an excuse to stay home and avoid the bad weather, and more like the beginning of a particularly filthy porno.

* * *

Footnotes:

1He'd even take a blizzard if he had to and that was all there was going, but for all his mostly human-shaped limbs and pretensions, Crowley was first and foremost a snake and he much preferred it when he could still feel his extremities during the proceedings if at all possible. After all, being too numb to feel anything wasn't the goal (even though it was sometimes tempting) and miracling away the sensations kind of defeated the purpose of the entire exercise.[return to text]

2The first time anyway.[return to text]

3And it absolutely was, though he wouldn't learn the word until a particularly interesting party in the early 20th century.[return to text]

4Like getting commendations for atrocities which he'd never have caused in a million years, or finding out Aziraphale had been shacking up with yet another pretentious literati wanker who wasn't even remotely good enough for him.[return to text]

5True, he'd been able to justify it as a case study on the nature of Lust by testing the upper limits of its effects on the human body, but it had been a good reminder to not fill out official paperwork while still coming down from the occult equivalent of autoerotic asphyxiation.[return to text]

6Lots of overlapping crystalline wavelengths of _soundlightfurysinging_ and tuning your vibrations in such a way as to harmonise with your current partner(s) of choice.[return to text]

7For the most part it had been less ecstatic celestial harmonies and more Einstürzende Neubauten with rather a lot of screaming, a veritable cornucopia of corrosive fluids, and semi-consensual vore.[return to text]

8As long as he didn't dwell on the fact that the same beings he'd once harmonised with had been the ones to condemn him to actual Hell for his curiosity, and there was no amount of liquor in the world which would ever make him admit to some of those names.[return to text]

9And he would get attached if he actually liked them enough to want to be that particular kind of intimate with them, he always did and it always ended up the same way. Worst-case scenario they found out what he was and rejected him, best-case scenario they accepted him and they’d still die eventually and he’d be left alone again.[return to text]

10During a particularly drunken night in Vatican City of all places, because they were going to be consecrating it to that pretentious bastard Michael tomorrow and he wouldn’t be able to come back and see all the beautiful art and buildings anymore.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to my amazing artists Danderlion13 and Ventela1, my very patient beta Brynncognito, my storycoach ParanoidPerson (couldn't find your ao3, I'm sorrry!) who helped me chose this particular story out of a lineup of WIPS, and Cassie-oh for jumping in at the last minute to help me wrangle the footnotes because the html was giving me a panic attack.


	2. It was a dark and story night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY MY BEAUTIFUL PERVERTS GUESS WHAT?? This time I did _aaallll_ the html for all the footnotes all by my damn self, and considering I have never been able to do any kind of even basic programming ever in my entire goddamn life I am so freaking proud right now :'D It's even the fancy kind where if you're using a computer you can hover your cursor over the footnote and it'll show the text without you having to click it, eep!! (Cassie you and your html instructions are solid gold, thank you!)
> 
> This chapter is where we really start getting into the action, and considering my wonderful beta Brynn was covering the google doc with the draft in lots of allcaps screaming comments today (after I redid and expanded like half the bloody chapter last night, lol go me) I hope you will enjoy this as well ;3 This fic will have a new chapter go up every day or two between now and January 31st when the final chapter will be posted, so look forward to that and the art by my incredible artists which will be coming with later chapters, I know I am <3
> 
> Ps. Follow me on Tumblr if you haven't already! And outside of basic life stuff I'll pretty much be writing and editing almost nonstop for the next week or so to get this finished on time, so all your comments really do help keep me excited and motivated to persevere even when my big dumb ADHD brain is all lolnope :'D <3

It was a dark and stormy night a few weeks after The Little Apocalypse That Couldn’t, and with the benefit of a little backstory we have a fairly good idea of how this is going to go.

The first signs were the dark clouds rolling in, which he had missed entirely, far too preoccupied with introducing Aziraphale to reality TV to realise that this might be more than the usual kind of English summer rain heralding the slow descent into early-onset autumn. As the evening progressed, the growing suspicion that he might be wrong was confirmed when the sound of the wind throwing things about in the alleyway became loud enough to distract him from his wine, and it was at this point that Crowley started to get worried.[11]

Now, if it was just a drizzle it wouldn't have mattered much. Living in the United Kingdom for any length of time desensitised even the most ardent of storm chasers to the milder forms of meteorological phenomena through sheer overexposure. But it just so happened that this was the beginning of the kind of storm which could potentially be termed “world-ending” by anyone who had not, in fact, lived through the actual end of the world just the other week. And thanks to his aforementioned preoccupation Crowley was not remotely prepared for it.

Well, shit. It was unseasonable too, the part of him which turned on the weather channel whenever he was particularly bored and horny noted with stomach-lurching anticipation. His favorite kind.[12]

Normally, he would do what he always did when faced with such a dilemma while in polite company, that being make his excuses to leave and then go home (or somewhere outdoors and secluded) for a very enthusiastic wank. But this time, he was in his favourite place in the entire world, which against all odds was apparently sitting on a threadbare old couch while sharing a bad tartan afghan and an excellent bottle of wine with the most important person in his existence as they watch The Great British Bake Off. Said person was Aziraphale, of course, who was in his element being three sheets to the wind on rather a lot of Innocent Bystander moscato because _he'd been feeling whimsical today, Crowley_. He was also in the process of explaining (at length) his very strongly held opinions regarding the correct way to prepare cream for a pavlova without insulting the cows from whence it came.

Midway through Aziraphale’s segue into waxing poetic about the noble nature of the humble Jersey cow, thunder crashed violently through the unsuspecting Troposphere like the fist of an angry god, the lights flickered, and (far too distracted by trying to think his way out of his current predicament) Crowley accidentally gasped in surprise loud enough for even a soused, half-oblivious angel to hear him.

As soft as the sound was, it was apparently enough to distract Aziraphale from his impromptu lecture, and he turned to Crowley with a mildly put out expression at the interruption. "My dear, are you quite alright?"

Crowley rolled his eyes with just the right amount of nonchalance, a tactic which usually helped him avoid any untoward prying. "I'm fine, angel, don't fuss."

Aziraphale looked like he didn’t quite believe him, but Crowley was too occupied running the odds on successfully being able to sit next to Aziraphale without making a complete idiot of himself while the storm of the century raged outside to notice. While busy coming to the unfortunate conclusion that it was on about the same level as a snowball's chance in Hell which was stoking his anxiety up to a proper panic, he missed Aziraphale turning completely away from the flatscreen he’d begrudgingly allowed Crowley to set up in his back room for cooking show purposes in order to give him his full attention.

"Don't tell me you're scared of thunder."

"Absolutely not," Crowley snapped. "Demon, remember? We're not scared of anything."

"Of course not." As he’d discovered roughly around the same time that humans discovered what pants were, Aziraphale being placating was just as annoying as him being smug. Infuriating as it was, it was still good to know that some things never changed.

It was quiet for a borderline awkward couple of minutes.

"Did you know humans in America do something called hurricane parties?" Aziraphale said out of nowhere, obviously pleased at being able to explain something modern culture-related to Crowley for once. "The lovely barista from that new donut shop was telling me all about it. They all convene at the home of whoever has the sturdiest and most well-stocked basement and sit around talking and playing games until the storm passes. I believe they even have special cakes for the occasion, isn’t that just delightful?"

Crowley thought back on the summer he'd spent pre-Apocalypse running around the American Midwest with a group of storm chasers determined to 'catch the big one'. There hadn't been any cake[13], but then again, that might have had something to do with the fact that they had been driving straight for wherever the storms were headed instead of hiding in basements with preteens.

"Huh, you don't say." It sounded a bit weird to be honest, but still, trust his angel to focus on the special culinary options available during natural disasters.

Together they returned to watching The Great British Bake Off, and it was all going just fine[14], up until a particularly enthusiastic lightning strike much too close to something important in the electrical grid made the lights flicker even worse than before, and between that and the accompanying crack of thunder, Crowley couldn't help but let out another gasp. Or, more accurately, a shocked and decidedly anticipatory whimper.

_Shit._

"Crowley, are you quite sure everything is alright?"

Shit, shit, _shit!_

"Sss' _fine_ angel." He hissed, because of course his traitorous snake tongue had picked right now of all times to be unruly. "Jussst caught me off guard."

Now, for all that Aziraphale cultivated an air of harmless affability, he wasn't actually an idiot, or even half as innocently clueless as he liked to seem. He was also a hedonistic, nigh incorrigible celestial bastard who had been living on Earth since the advent of the human race, with the conflicting influences of overbearing (if sporadic) supervision from the gaslighting-inclined upper management of Heaven and a demonic best friend. So he had an intimate familiarity with what repression looked like which probably no other being in Creation did, save perhaps Crowley himself. And for his part, Crowley knew that right now - thanks to the three-hit combo of an inconveniently timed stormfront, Aziraphale's undivided attention from less than a foot away and him being without the protective shield of his Valentino sunglasses - he was probably looking not unlike a deer facing down the headlights of a rapidly approaching lorry.

When their eyes met, they both seemed to realise at the exact same second that unlike all the other moments like this which had happened over the long years of their friendship, Aziraphale was no longer beholden to keep up appearances and pretend he didn't see it.

"Crowley," he said softly, something resonant in his voice penetrating the familiar haze of alcohol and anxiety like distant church bells and making every single particle and wave of Crowley sit up and pay attention faster than one of Pavlov’s dogs.

Was this it? _Literal millennia_ of pining, unspoken attraction and a full on bloody Notpocalypse, and they were really going to talk about this now? On the television, Mary Berry was gently scolding someone's pavlova for having a soggy bottom, and if this was really how he was going to get his heart handed back to him like an unwanted toaster being returned to Sainsburys the first business day after Christmas, he was officially giving up on ever expecting the world to have any kind of fairness ever again.

There had been another moment just recently, during that strange night in Crowley's flat when they were caught in the weird liminal space between the literal Revelations at the airbase and being recalled by their respective Head Offices. Both of them had been absolutely exhausted - covered in hellsoot and the timesand and Heaven only knows what else - but they were both still so wonderfully, miraculously alive that it had been taking everything Crowley had left to not just embrace Aziraphale and never let go.

So when they had gotten close to each other while leaning over the scrap of burnt prophecy there had been a moment waiting for them, one possibly even louder than any that had come before it. But the moment had passed, as so many had passed them by over the years in deference to preserving the status quo and consequently each other's lives,[15], and they'd quickly gotten back to all that very important drinking and avoiding certain death business.

It had now been nearly a month since Apocalypse Now had become Apocalypse Nah, barely a blip in the grand scheme of things, really. But it had felt like so much more since they'd been spending just about every day together, luxuriating in their ability to sit back and make the most of each other's presence without needing excuses or deception, a much needed chance to relax and catch their breath after eleven very stressful years. So while it was true that in the process of enjoying their freedom they'd slowly been circling closer and closer to each other like two ships caught in the same whirlpool, without the adrenaline rush of pending annihilation to fuel that final drag down towards the ocean floor there had still been something which felt suspiciously like sheer bloody terror holding them back from going any deeper.[16]

Perhaps it was irrational, that age-old lingering fear of abandonment which had been so ingrained in Crowley after being cast out of Heaven, but of all the things he'd happily jump into headfirst without a care for the consequences, Aziraphale wasn't one of them. The idea that after all this time he might fuck up the thing he treasured most and lose his best friend (again) was just not an option, and even though the very _idea_ of confessing his feelings to Aziraphale made him want to turn into a snake and hide in a bookshelf for the next century, if there was one single thing in his entire sorry existence Crowley was going to do properly, it was this.

Clearly having reached his minimum requirement for the virtue of patience while Crowley stared off into the middle distance, Aziraphale tried again. "What are you thinking about, Crowley?"

"Um." _How much the sound of the rain on the windows of your bookshop reminds me of Eden, just like every single storm which has ever happened always reminds me of the first piece of kindness I'd felt since I Fell._ "Just, y'know. Stuff."

Aziraphale's brows furrowed, the worry lines creasing his forehead seemingly mirroring the fault lines reaching deep into Crowley's own useless chest as punishment for his sins, and he wanted so badly to smooth those lines away with his fingers, his lips. Some ridiculous part of himself was convinced that if he could just kiss them, they would soften and fade away, and Aziraphale would be back to smiling like the sun breaking over the horizon, lighting up a brand new world where Crowley’s touch was welcome and wouldn't stain his angel even worse than tar and hellfire ever could.

"Really now," he huffed, jolting Crowley out of the start of a particularly good angst spiral. "Must you always be so difficult?"

“Wha--? No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!” he insisted. “Something’s bothering you and it's making you act all strangely.”

“I’m not the one who’s being _difficult_ , angel,” he spluttered, not sure if he was more offended at the accusation or terrified at the possibility Aziraphale could see right through him.

Yeah, that was quite enough of that. "Right, I'm leaving."

"Don't be silly, Crowley, it's pouring out there," Aziraphale protested, pointedly snapping his fingers to turn the TV off so they could Talk About This, an effort which backfired spectacularly when it only made it easier for Crowley to hear the storm which was starting to make him about as wet as it was currently making Greek Street.

Crowley swore under his breath as he tried to find his sunglasses in the mess of discarded wine bottles and the remains of the Indian takeaway sitting on an old steamer trunk they’d dragged over to use as a coffee table, far too distracted by the flashing arcs of lightning visible through the windows to realise they were in his jacket pocket right where he’d left them. "Of course it’s raining, I'm not an idiot!"

"I never said you were, dear,” said Aziraphale with a far too coherent roll of his eyes, and Crowley realised that at some point the angel had sobered up without him noticing. “So why are you being so defensive?"

"I'm not being defensive!" Crowley hissed defensively, also surreptitiously sobering up so he wasn’t at any more of a disadvantage than he already was.

Despite his agitation Aziraphale was still more than capable of raising a bitchy eyebrow at his outburst, and Crowley only held back the dull blush threatening to overtake him through the same force of will which had held the Bentley together through the M25 turning into a literal burning hellscape.

"Why are you trying so hard to leave in the middle of a storm when I'm trying to have a serious conversation with you?" Aziraphale asked flatly, anxious dithering finally giving way to annoyed scolding which was really, _really_ not helping the sudden deluge situation happening in Crowley's jeans. "This is incredibly rude behaviour, Crowley."

"Ngk." He replied, not realising he'd been backing away from the increasingly pretty picture of increasingly irate angel until his bony hip collided with the edge of the round, book-strewn wooden display table directly under the oculus. Through the sheer glass skylight above his head he could see the rain pounding down even harder and Aziraphale - his darling, earnest bastard of an angel - apparently hadn’t noticed that he'd been slowly advancing on Crowley like a tidal wave heading for shore.

Frankly, it was getting to be a little too much like some of his nicer fantasies for comfort, as if Aziraphale seemed to think proximity and eye contact would be enough to drag the confession out of him. At this point the incredibly flustered demon couldn’t honestly say that he's mistaken.

"Why won't you tell me what's wrong?" he asked, the frustration and genuine hurt in his voice making the already flimsy foundations of Crowley's resolve crumble like fragile coastline being swept away by the relentless ocean. "After everything we've been through, don't you trust me at all?"

There's something like fourth-dimensional tunnel vision when you're in the process of doing potentially the worst thing you'll ever do in your life. Time slows, like a great cosmic signpost for the offramp which informs you in no uncertain terms that you're in danger of merging onto the Freeway of Bad Decisions, and you only have one roughly eternal split second to get well clear of it.

If it's an accident or happens in the heat of the moment, you might only feel the ghost of this feeling with the benefit of hindsight, but if it's a conscious choice? If you weigh up the pros and cons and somehow, fucking somehow, The Worst Thing still wins out? That's a special and singular kind of Hell all on its own because then you have to watch it happen in slow motion, knowing you could've avoided it, and for whatever stupid reason you've decided it’s terribly important you don't. You do it, or say it, or let it happen, and you can never again take that decision back.

This felt distressingly similar, because if after all this time Aziraphale rejected him, it was going to kill him worse than lightning or floods or Heaven ever could.

_(Could he please just pause Time again, just to catch his breath?)_

Maybe if he had enough time he could build a greenhouse, an enclosed space with four walls and a glass ceiling of its very own so that whatever delicate, impossible thing germinating between them could be sheltered from the world. Maybe they could have had a chance that way. Maybe it was entirely possible that with a top-of-the-line temperature and humidity control system, the right mix of nutrient blends and some trial and error, that he could find the optimum conditions for Aziraphale to love him back.

It's true that it's hard to grow anything in the desert, but that seed had been planted deep in the sand at the Beginning just like Eden had, and if the Almighty could do it then Crowley refused to believe that he lived in a world where he couldn't do it too. His love hadn't just been planted, it'd been _cultivated_ , watered by all the dew and rain and rivers of the Earth as he'd sauntered through the years with Aziraphale by his side, and tended it with all the care and adoration and selflessness it was possible for a demon to give and more.

Loving Aziraphale was sometimes so much fun it made him giddy, sometimes painful, sometimes easier than breathing; but if he knew anything for sure, it was that it had made him a better person. As flawed and bitter and aching as he was, a survivor covered in scar tissue which went all the way down, it was undeniable that without his angel's defiant gentleness to learn from, he would have been no better than all the other demons. Every one of them were angry shadows of who they once were, forever unable to move on from the agonising, traumatic betrayal of the Fall which had defined them, and Crowley had decided long ago that he refused to let that be his fate too. Being on Earth had helped of course, but without Aziraphale he wouldn't have known how to even give it a chance in the first place.

So in light of all that, maybe whether or not his love for the angel was reciprocated didn't matter. Funnily enough, perhaps that had never really been the point.

But oblivious to the fact that in his head Crowley was trying valiantly to make his peace with the unrequited nature of his feelings, Aziraphale seemed to have decided that tonight of all nights barging through the long established no man’s land of Unaddressed Conversational Topics Which We Absolutely Do Not Talk About[17] like a Sherman tank with a tartan bow tie was the way to go. "Crowley, my dear, what I'm trying to say is that I do believe I'm very much in love with you."

_What the actual blessed fuck???_

There was white noise roaring in Crowley's ears like he'd just been dunked headfirst into a black hole, and if his corporation’s involuntary reactions were to be trusted, he was mere moments away from a panic attack. "Fsnnnghh-- you, you _believe?"_

Aziraphale looked like he, too, was only seconds away from a panic attack, but still also quite annoyed that his declaration hadn't been met with whatever it was that he'd clearly been expecting. "That is what I said, yes."

"Be sure, angel," Crowley begged, voice hoarse and hands clenched at his sides so tight they were shaking, and he hoped against all hope that he didn’t look nearly as stricken as he felt. "Please be sure.”

“Crowley?”

It was getting harder and harder to hold himself back, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he was holding himself back from. “If you have any of that so-called angelic mercy left at all, then please, _please_ angel, don't you dare stand there and say something like that to me. Not unless you're certain. Not if you don’t know for sure. ‘Cause I d-don’t know what it’ll do to me if you decide to change your mind."

Finally Aziraphale's face softened into well-worn fondness, eroded by millennia of guilt but no less real for it. "Oh, my poor demon. All this time with me trying so foolishly to live up to Heaven's impossible expectations, thinking it would keep us both safe. I really have been so incredibly cruel to you, haven't I?"

Crowley's lower lip definitely wasn't trembling before he could pin it harshly in place with his teeth, most definitely not. "No, ‘course not."

Slowly, as if Crowley was a timid unicorn, Aziraphale’s soft, manicured hands reached across the narrow divide to hold his own where they remained clenched into fists at his side, and Crowley’s breath caught in his throat and didn’t dare start again just in case it made the beautiful angel touching him let go. "You don't need to lie to me, dearest."

"M'not," he protested weakly, borderline drunk again on more prolonged, direct skin contact than Crowley'd had with him in the last several centuries put together, but needing to be sure he’d made his point clear to the increasingly teary-looking Aziraphale. "It’s just, it doesn't matter angel. Not if it's you. If it's you, I'll take anything - anything at all - so long as you’re happy.”

“But what about you, Crowley, what about your happiness?”

Crowley tried to remember the last time anyone had thought enough about his happiness to actually voice their concerns to him out loud, and had to give it up as a failed exercise. “ _You_ make me happy, angel. Just, getting to hang about and watch you enjoy things while you smile and complain about absolutely everything, and you letting me be there to see it."

Aziraphale sniffled, lower lip trembling just like it had at the bandstand, and that was the exact opposite of what Crowley had wanted to see when he gave up on his dignity and bared his greedy, desperate heart to him like a burnt offering. But then Aziraphale raised his chin, all British stiff upper lip and the bravery of one raised to be a soldier whether they liked it or not, and met Crowley’s yellow serpent eyes dead on with unwavering determination. "Do you know why I used the word believe and not know, Crowley?"

Crowley’s shriveled heart, apparently oblivious to his fervent desire to offer it nicely on a silver platter, was doing its level best to just pound right out of Crowley’s chest. He was trembling from head to toe, insides squirming like they wanted to crawl right up his throat and book it for Alpha Centauri. He was terrified and elated all at the same time, nearly light-headed with the deadly warmth of scarcely-formed hope. "No."

"It's not a lack of conviction, it's because I am a being made of faith and love. As an angel, those two things are essential to my very existence, and you, my dear, are the third thing which makes up the heart of me. My love for you and my faith in you-- I wouldn't be myself any longer if they were to be taken away from me, and frankly I’m not even sure I could survive if it did happen.”

He slid his hands up Crowley’s arms and across his slender shoulders, thumbs resting gently in the sharp divots of his collarbones as if they’d been made to fit exactly there. “Loving you isn't an option or a choice or some kind of consolation prize, it is the greatest gift I have ever received in my entire existence. One which I do hope you will permit me to share with you in turn." His face fell again, and he bowed his head as if trying to hide himself from whatever rejection he thought might come. “That is, if you still want me. If I haven’t made you wait too long already that you've give up on me.”

This wasn’t happening. He’d eaten too much vindaloo and fallen asleep on the couch and this was a dream, there was no other possible explanation for it.

“ _Angel,_ ” he forced out. His voice was wrecked and he had no blessed idea where to put his hands when Aziraphale was all but hugging him, but still he persevered. “You’ve got to know I would’ve waited for you until the sun went out, right?”

“Oh, oh, Crowley!”

Shit, okay, now Aziraphale was _actually_ hugging him. Air raid sirens were going off in his head and his bloody hands were still hovering awkwardly in the air just about Aziraphale’s shoulders, but as the seconds passed and it became more and more clear that the cuddly angel wasn’t going anywhere, he slowly lowered them down until they were in an honest to Somebody _embrace_.

They had hugged before over the years, of course, usually to help each other stay upright when they were pissed and didn’t want to sober up just yet, or if they were being dragged from a battlefield or a bar fight. But there had been the rare occasions when something so bad had happened that one of them was an absolute wreck[18] and the other was the only being in all of Creation who could possibly understand, and as nice as those moments of quiet, platonic comfort were, afterwards, they were never spoken about again. Before today, they had been were some of Crowley’s most treasured - if bittersweet - memories, but none of them had been anything at all like this hug, where no one had died horribly and nothing had been destroyed, and Aziraphale had just told Crowley he loved him.

Sweet blessed _fuck_ , Aziraphale _loved_ him. Loved _Crowley_.

They were both silent for who knows how long, even the pounding rain and thunder not enough to distract him from the unparalleled feeling of having Aziraphale safe (and voluntarily) in his arms. He was so incredibly soft and warm that the snake part of Crowley’s brain wanted almost nothing more than to coil up around him like he was a particularly nice basking rock and not move again until spring. Only almost, though.There were other things which were starting to occur to him, but he resolutely stamped down on the impulse to do anything which might make Aziraphale feel like he was moving too fast for him. It had taken until the 1960s, but he’d finally learned his blessed lesson, and no matter how much the feeling of Aziraphale's luscious corporation pressed tightly up against his own in all the right places was doing things for him, there was no chance he was going to fuck this up. Seriously, it could be decades until they worked up to some hand-holding and a peck on the cheek, and Crowley would thank Aziraphale on bended knee for the privilege.

 _Shit_. Don’t think about kneeling at Aziraphale’s feet. Or about his hands in your hair holding you in place while he--

"You know, Crowley, there’s something I’ve suspected for a while now that I believe has just been confirmed.”

“Hnrk?” Crowley refused to feel embarrassed about his keysmash of a mouth. That he'd managed any kind of response at all when his thoughts were being so bloody distracting meant he deserved a bloody medal.

Aziraphale nuzzled into his throat - _nuzzled!_ \- and the sensation of his hot breath puffing against the racing pulse in his neck actually made his knees week. “I don't think you just want me to let you ‘hang about’ like you said."

"What? Of course I do." Was he kidding? It was all he'd ever allowed himself to want for forever.

"No, dearest," said Aziraphale as he pulled back just far enough that he could meet Crowley’s gaze, somehow blocking out the entire world until all Crowley could see was the gold-veined glaciers of his eyes. "After careful consideration, I think that what you really want is to be one of the things I like to enjoy as well. I think you want me to _keep you._ "

The desperate whine which crawled its way out of Crowley's chest like a freshly Fallen angel from a lake of sulphur was not one he'd ever heard himself make before in his entire existence, because even more than the occasional futile wish to return Upstairs[19], this - this right here - was the unspoken thing which he'd never let himself want except for in his most indulgent dreams.

“Wuh…” Crowley trailed off as his breath came in shallow pants which did nothing to help disguise his staggering levels of overwhelmed, confused arousal. “Wou-would you?”

"Would I what, dearest?" For fuck's sake, it wasn't fair that he was so hot when he was being mean.

Crowley was beyond mortified and wanted very much to hide his burning face and whatever expression was currently visible on it, but Aziraphale was watching him with such rapt fascination that he felt frozen in place. "Would you... I mean, angel please, I need--"

Aziraphale beamed up at him, that radiant smile Crowley loved so much which outshone the sun itself, and this one was all for him. “Oh my sweet, beautiful, _darling_ serpent.” He cooed, sliding his hands up to tangle luxuriously in his thick mane of messy red curls just like Crowley had always dreamed he would, and nearly making him discorporate from pleasure on the spot. “Haven’t you guessed already? You’re already my very favourite thing of them all.”

Crowley closed his eyes. "Please keep me, Aziraphale," he breathed. "I'm yours, I've _always_ been yours."

Physically crossing that last hairsbreadth of distance between them have might looked like it only took a matter of seconds, but Crowley knew down to the blackened heart of him that it was a pilgrimage which had taken over six thousand years, the entirety of human history, from a garden and a wall all the way through the ages to now. From the very first storm which hit east of Eden to the one currently doing its level best to level London and his last remaining defenses with it, they'd managed to weather every single one, and even more incredibly, they were still here, standing together in a cozy old bookshop while the rain poured down outside.

It was a gentle kiss, one that had waited so patiently for so long for them to be ready for it.

To be perfectly clear, this wasn’t the physical proof of a love which had endured through the Beginning and the End and everything in between, because that love had already been expressed in a hundred thousand other moments long before this one. As a certain Antichrist had recently noted at an airbase just outside Lower Tadfield, love above all else was being there, the conscious choice to share the good times and the bad with equal willingness; it was understanding and appreciating your loved ones for everything they were and not your idea of what they should be, respecting their choices and interests even if you didn't share them and making time for it all regardless.

In Aziraphale and Crowley's case, this meant dinner and drinks in every corner of the world, books saved from Alexandria and a bombed out church and a burning Soho bookshop, a wing extended in kindness to shield an enemy from the rain and the reluctant gift of a deadly tartan thermos. But above all it was an angel and a demon who loved each other and the world they shared so much that they stared Heaven and Hell in the face and told them, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off.

So no, this kiss was not proof of a love which shaped an angel and a demon as much as they'd shaped human civilisation. What it was, however, was proof that it was never too late to be brave, and that no amount of time was ever a waste of time, not as long as you spent it with someone you love.

* * *

Footnotes:

11And by worried, he of course meant ‘borderline panicking.’[return to text]

12All those computer-rendered models, the hubris of thinking they could quantify the Almighty's fury into neat little statistics and percentages and then actually kind of achieving it? It was enough to make a demon's toes curl.[return to text]

13There had been beer, though. An almost biblical amount of beer and more kinds and flavours of jerky than he'd ever wanted to know existed.[return to text]

14For any given value of just fine when you were trying desperately to control meteorologically-induced arousal so that your best friend didn’t realise how much of a depraved fucking pervert you were.[return to text]

15It might not have occurred to either of them just yet, but the fact that for both of them their priorities was always each other's safety and not their own was telling.[return to text]

16A human might think it ridiculous that they were still wasting time now that they were finally free, but when you’re immortal time wasn't exactly a finite resource. When months could be spent on a whim and years on a nap, you measured time less in terms of the time which passed you by and more in terms of the things which happened during it which really mattered.[return to text]

17These topics included The War, The Fall, Who Crowley Had Been In Heaven, The Moment Crowley Found Out He Went Too Fast, and The Time Crowley Learned Why Shem Needed Two Unicorns And Not Just One.[return to text]

18The Tenth Plague of Egypt, the burning of the Library of Alexandria, the Spanish Inquisition and the Holocaust, to name a few, but you don’t spend as long as they had on Earth without seeing some shit.[return to text]

19This was strictly in the early years, mind you, and by the time the Ark was being built he’d well and truly gotten over it. Most definitely over it, how rude of you to try and suggest otherwise.[return to text]


	3. Clothing with dissimilar similitudes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fuckening begins! I seriously can't believe that this is the first full on smut I've ever posted on ao3, just wtf. Big thank you to my beta Brynncognito and my eldritch twin D20OwlBear for all the help with actually finishing said smut, y'all are the real MVPs.

There's a strange, inhuman kind of wildness present in angels. Especially in the older ones, the ones who had been around from before the Almighty had first gotten to turning the lights on for the Universe, and _definitely_ in the oldest, the ones who were there even before the start of Creation. 

Maybe it’s because She was still ironing out the kinks of the design as it were, or perhaps it was simply a leftover from them staring out into the primordial Void-That-Was with all of their multitudes of eyes which had never quite left them. The ones who had come into being since then weren't quite the same, and the longer each angel was created after the Fall the less likely they were to be predisposed towards righteous violence as their first, knee-jerk reaction. More docile, as if She'd seen the error of Her ways in allowing Her angels to be so bloodthirsty and had decided to nip the worst of that nonsense in the bud.

These days Heaven was so controlled, so orderly as to be nearly unrecognisable from what it once was, as if they were trying to overcompensate for that instinctual urge for conquest by covering it up with open plan office spaces and tastefully anachronistic businesswear. It'd been a long time since She allowed them free reign to unleash Her Wrath on Earth, given them the permission to exercise those baser instincts, and if the Notpocalypse is any indication, then not unlike a hunting dog being kept in a tasteful inner city apartment they were getting in desperate need of a walk.

Crowley was old. _Very_ old. 

He was, in fact, so old that he could faintly remember the vast emptiness which preceded everything, remember when it was only Her light holding it at bay which let the first angels exist at all. Like baby swans hidden away in their mother's wings, so too were the first angels cradled gently in Her presence so they could bear witness to Her triumph and sing _holy, holy, holy_ in exaltation of all She had wrought.

Aziraphale was old too, though not nearly as old as Crowley.[20] If you were to attempt to put a timeline on things, he came into being somewhere roughly between Creation and the Beginning, around the same time as the pride which came before the Fall. 

Maybe it was a coincidence, or the result of six thousand years of increasingly close proximity which made his own wildness bleed out of him and into the Principality like a disease. Maybe there was something about prolonged exposure to humans which changed you, that special kind of urgency endemic to mortal beings which you couldn’t help but absorb via osmosis. But on some deep level beyond physical senses and the safely insulated distance enforced by their human-shaped corporations, he'd always know _somehow_ that Aziraphale - impossibly and against all odds - was made of the exact same kind of starstuff which Crowley was. 

For all he toed the company line of ethereal restraint, hidden behind his stuffy old clothes and Victorian sensibilities[21] he was still a thing of wild spaces and infinite glory, and that never quite went away. Flashes of light in his eyes when they argued, the static feeling of a storm brewing when something had offended him which Crowley attributed at least half of his more unfortunate masturbatory habits to. Whenever it happened it was as if like sensed like, something usually slumbering deep inside Crowley was ignited by the answering fire in Aziraphale as he _burned_ with the knowledge of it. 

He was being reminded of it again now.

Without stopping any of his truly inspired efforts to kiss the literal Hell out of Crowley, Aziraphale apparently decided enough was enough and snapped his fingers, sending the books already threatening to be knocked askew to a safer locale and pushing Crowley down so he was splayed on his back on the miraculously clear display table. Some hysterical part of Crowley’s awareness was quite impressed at the resilience of the painfully Roccoco table for standing up to the combined weight of them both, because the angel was not being particularly gentle in his demon-handling and all of it was _so fucking hot_ Crowley was honestly concerned that if Aziraphale kept up the passionate assault he was unleashing upon his poor corporation it might just spontaneously combust.

He'd suspected of course. Much like Aziraphale he wasn't an idiot, and you didn't spend as much time spelunking into the deepest, darkest desires of humanity as Crowley had without picking up on a thing or two. But there was a big difference between suspecting your best friend who you'd been in love with ever since the world was new wanted to kiss you senseless on his antique furniture and actually _knowing_ it for sure, and that difference was paved wall to wall with hesitation and self-doubt just as surely as the road to Hell was paved with door-to-door salesmen and telemarketers who called when you were eating dinner.

There was no hesitation now.

The heat from Aziraphale’s body was like a furnace, seeping into Crowley’s cold-blooded bones as he held on for dear life to the angel’s shoulders as he positively ravished him like the swooning heroine on the cover of a romance novel. Aziraphale’s hands were _everywhere_ , and Crowley would almost wonder if he’d manifested a few extra for the occasion if he wasn’t so busy cataloguing ever single touch that he knew it couldn’t possibly be true. After so long he knew those hands so well, knew the exact size and shape of his fingers and palms, the plump softness and perfectly manicured nails camouflaging the strength in them. The countless artists over the years who had depicted him, they might have carved him from cold marble or brought him to life with the rich pigments of oils, but none of them could possibly know Aziraphale’s hands as well as Crowley did. And for all of that he was still left - not for the first time - feeling perversely curious about what it would feel like if Aziraphale touched him _without_ his hands.

A corporation wasn't a body, after all, not in the sense that humans had bodies anyway. Humans were by their very nature amphibious, the Breath of God threaded through all their protein chains and neurons making them entirely unique creatures due to their ability to be a miraculous hybrid of the physical and the divine.

Angels weren't like that. And seeing as demons, for all their posturing to the contrary, began their existence as angels too, it went without saying that neither were they. As beings made primarily of stardust, conceptual ephemera and no small amount of the weird kind of theoretical physics, there was nothing about them which was naturally predisposed to the rigours of physicality. Getting a corporation was like getting a company car, one you were expected to learn how to drive and look after in order to get the job done, and if you fucked up badly enough to need a new one you better believe you'd be in for a world of hurt if there wasn't a _really_ good reason for it. 

Even after humans started showing up in Heaven and Hell, respectively, and they were made compulsory[22], there was a certain amount of learning curve required to get the hang of them, one which not all angels or demons were particularly good at. Most just set their corporations to the metaphysical equivalent of cruise control and called it a millennium, while those who spent more time on earth or in management roles tended to do better purely through prolonged exposure to the source material. But either way, you still couldn't expect to shove all of that divine/damned celestial fury into approximately 1.76 cubic feet of particularly clever meat and not expect to deal with any weird side effects or translation issues.[23]

Enter Crowley and Aziraphale, who (as the only two celestial beings stationed full-time on Earth since the Beginning[24] with all the constant contact with human beings that implies) had each clocked more hours in manual drive than literally everyone else of their respective former sides combined. Which is to say, they understood the human body and the close approximations which were their human-shaped corporations very, _very_ well. And right now this knowledge was being put to excellent use.

Forget any of Crowley's previous thoughts about waiting decades for some hand-holding because Aziraphale was _everywhere_ , a veritable hurricane of sensation who left nothing standing in his wake. When Crowley regained enough awareness he locked his legs around Aziraphale's hips and pulled him in even closer, almost regretting that he wasn't currently a snake because he couldn't wrap himself around his angel nearly as tightly as he would've liked, but unable to deny the appeal in having hands right about now. 

Aziraphale made a noise of pleasure as he settled in against Crowley, and Crowley hissed as he felt Aziraphale’s Effort rub deliciously against his own arousal where it was all slick and wet and _needy_. It took barely a fraction of a second for Aziraphale to register which form Crowley’s Effort had taken at present, and his brow raised in what seemed to be pleased amusement at how much of a mess he already was before Crowley did something particularly sinful with his snake-like hips which made the angel's expression dissolve into unadulterated pleasure.

“S’thisss alright?” He asked when they both took a second to catch their breath, hoping the pointed look downwards would spell out his meaning so he didn’t have to.

“Of course dearest, why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugged, looking away and cursing his inability to control his current predisposition towards flushing in embarrassment. "I don’t know if it’s what you were expecting is all. It’s just, you know I prefer to have a good shed if I'm going to change things up a lot. A couple of months ago I was still being Nanny and there's not exactly been a lot of downtime since then."

Aziraphale smiled like the sun at high noon, and from this close it was damn near blinding. "Oh, I'm not complaining in the slightest. I daresay I'd love whichever kind of Effort you made or however you chose to present yourself."

As an occult being who liked to play around in the gender and sundries department much how some particularly flamboyant humans liked to with their fashion choices, this was incredibly comforting to hear from the only being who Crowley wanted to see him naked. One who he very much hoped would continue to want to see him naked for not just the foreseeable future but all of the future, from now until the end of time and hopefully even some more after that, please and thank you. "Yeah?"

"Of course." Aziraphale smiled adoringly, all warmth and fondness and reassurance. "After all, in all our years on Earth together, I've never found anyone as stunningly beautiful as you. Not even once."

Oh Heaven, he must have been blushing hard enough now to be seen from _space_. "Ssstop it, angel."

Aziraphale grinned wickedly. “Oh I’ll do no such thing.” 

Then his hand was on Crowley’s chest and he was once again being pushed onto the table so hard it was just this side of pain. Rain was still thundering down outside, and when a matching flash of lightning painted its way across the inky sky visible through the glass skylight, Crowley's legs automatically spread even wider as he moaned, because just for a moment Aziraphale was lit up from behind by an electric thundercrash halo of light and it was _heavenly._

It was enough to distract Crowley for a moment, and in that moment Aziraphale had already begun to disrobe him, pressing his fingertips in the spaces between Crowley’s clothes and his skin, slowly raising the fabric and revealing everything underneath like he were some precious tome being taken apart in order to be repaired and loved and rebound. Crowley’s heart jumped up somewhere into his throat as a tremor shook him to the core. He couldn’t believe this was real, that this was actually _happening_ , and too late he realised he should probably be returning the favor. Aziraphale just offered him another warm, fond smile though, and it settled Crowley’s nerves enough that he managed to gently unfasten Aziraphale’s waistcoat and slide it off him so it crumpled to the floor. 

By the time Aziraphale had gotten Crowley fully nude he hadn’t managed much more— untying _that bloody bowtie_ had been a fantasy of his for quite some time now so he was understandably derailed a bit by that alone. He bravely forged on though, even getting a couple of Aziraphale’s buttons unfastened to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of bare skin and pale blond chest hair, before his restless hands skittered onward. They found their way to the bottom hem of Aziraphale’s shirt so he could slip his questing fingers beneath it, finally splaying against all that warm, _soft_ skin. Then Aziraphale moved his lovely plush belly out of his reach, and he was just about to complain when he realised it was because Aziraphale had just lowered himself to his knees.

Crowley quickly decided with the small part of his brain still functioning at vaguely full capacity[25] that having an angel kneeling in front of him was a jarring, but overwhelmingly positive, experience. Meanwhile, Aziraphale seemed determined to slowly kiss his way up Crowley from his feet to Someone-knows-where. He appeared particularly enamoured by the light scattering of black and red scales which were pieces of Crowley’s true nature peeking through the boundaries of his corporation, which was handy because the further up he got, the less control Crowley had over it. 

“What was it that got you so worked up earlier, dearest?” He asked once he reached about halfway up before swapping to do the same to the other leg, an apparently epic undertaking which was making Crowley wonder just how long said legs really were, because surely entire empires must have risen and fallen while Aziraphale busied himself memorising the shape of his ankles.

“Um.” Oh, that was just playing dirty, asking him embarrassing questions when his defences were lowered. “S’nothing.”

The bastard just pressed a smile into his skin. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not _nothing,_ my love, not when it had you so very flustered.”

Crowley was still so busy trying to process the ‘my love’ bit that he forgot to keep his big mouth shut. “It was the storm.”

Aziraphale looked up from his own efforts to destroy Crowley from the Effort up, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “The storm?”

“I mean, well er--” Shit, this would have been bad enough to try and explain away under normal circumstances, let alone when he was naked with Aziraphale _between his legs_ , looking up at him through feathery white lashes while his mouth thoroughly investigated the almost ticklish (but mostly just wonderful) spot just behind his left knee.

“Do you like storms, Crowley?”

He was just about to deny it when Aziraphale bit down on the tight band of muscle on the inside of his thigh and all he could do was cry out, “Ah! Fuck’s sake, angel, bloody well _yesss_ , okay?”

Aziraphale hummed in approval, sucking on the bite mark for a second before laving it with his warm pink tongue to soothe the sharpness of his teeth. “How fascinating. Tell me, do you always react this way to inclement weather, or was something about today special?”

He wanted to cry in frustration and embarrassment, because while his angel often had his head in the clouds, when something properly caught his interest he was relentless, and having Aziraphale’s attention focused solely on him and his unfortunate sexual pursuits was simultaneously the best and worst thing to have happened to him in millennia. Unfortunately, his treacherous cunt didn’t seem to have gotten the memo that this was a _bad thing_ , because the shame was just making him even wetter than he already was, and there was no way Aziraphale hadn’t noticed.

“Answer me, darling,” he said, voice lower than Crowley had ever heard it. “I don’t want to have to ask you again.”

“Oh, _fuck_.” There was no way in Heaven he couldn’t obey that voice, even when he felt himself involuntarily clenching around nothing because of it and - even more incredibly - was beginning to suspect that if he asked very, _very_ nicely Aziraphale might actually put his cock in him. “S’all wild and powerful, isn’t it? Nothing can stop a storm or a hurricane when it starts, not really. Not even us.”

Aziraphale looked about as thoughtful as it were possible for one to seem while eye-level with a demon’s vulva. “And you like that? You like there being something more powerful than you?”

“I like not thinking,” he panted, eyes rolling back in his head as he took advantage of his own visceral reaction to Aziraphale’s words to not have to look him in the eye. “Always thinking, me. Just, s’nice being all overwhelmed is all. Not having to fight for once ‘cause it’s pointless to even try. I jussst have to let it happen, until it all goes away.”

Big warm hands smoothed down his flank to ground him, and did an annoyingly good job of it too. “Let what happen, Crowley?”

“Fuck, everything.” Even with most of his rational thinking leaking down his thighs to pool underneath him on the table, Crowley knew he had to be careful about how much he revealed about this particular line of questioning. “All of it happens until all of it stops, and all of it _always_ makes me think of you.”

Another sharp nip to his exposed skin. “Am I a storm, then?”

Crowley covered his face with his elbow to hide from the unfathomable look in his angel’s eyes. “Yeah, but you’re what protects me from it as well. You’re _everything_ to me, Aziraphale, you’ve been everything for so fucking long I don’t even know what else I could possibly be but yours.”

There was a sharp inhale of breath, and Crowley was just about to wonder what the accepted etiquette was for launching oneself out of a window mid-foreplay when Aziraphale dove back in to his ministrations with even more enthusiasm than before. 

Sparks of pleasure were trailing up his nervous system and lighting up his dopamine pathways like it was Christmas in Covent Garden, which in turn set off all the vibrations of his true form where they were pleasantly tangled together like a feedback loop of ecstasy, and very quickly he was drowning in it all like it was the floodwaters all over again. This time, though, instead of the dull, oppressive weight of the water filling up his lungs, all he felt was love, because Aziraphale was branding it into every sense he has on this plane and several others he technically doesn’t like it was his God-given right.[26]

He shouldn’t have even be able to feel this by rights, demons usually aren’t supposed to be able to know this kind of bliss anymore. But Crowley had never been the usual kind of demon, and there was just enough of the messy, visceral human kind of love in it for Crowley to feel it all the way into the gaping chasm which was once his heart.

"Y’know, I reckon you could prob'ly weaponise that mouth of yours to great effect," he said helplessly as Aziraphale pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the bands of _incredibly sensitive_ red scales on the inside of his shaking thighs. "If we weren't already all, y'know, retired and in exile after derailing the Apocalypse, I'd be actively campaigning to our respective head offices to enact legislation to– _ah!_ –ensure it couldn't be deployed against civilians in times of war."

Aziraphale resurfaced from where he'd been sucking a luscious bruise into the crease of his hip just long enough to raise a prissy blonde eyebrow. "How in the Hell are you still talking, dearest?"

"I have no idea," he confessed, though to be fair anyone who'd known Crowley for even a fraction of the time Aziraphale had probably should have picked up by now that he'd be a babbler. "You should prob’bly do something about that."

Always a problem solver with a can-do attitude and an oral fixation, Aziraphale seemed to decide in short order that the thing to do would be to bypass his thoroughly victimised inner thighs altogether, and descend on his clit like it was his Lenten sacrifice and the clock had just ticked over to Good Friday.

Crowley was already strung taut as a bow, and probably would've jack-knifed up and broken Aziraphale’s nose with his pelvis if the clever angel hadn’t had the foresight to hold him down by his hips as if it was nothing. Likewise, he probably would have been swooning over the easy display of strength if he wasn’t far too busy wondering if it was possible to discorporate from the overwhelming sensation of being gifted with everything you could possibly want all at once—with the addition of very enthusiastic cunnilingus like the proverbial cherry on top. 

Ignoring Crowley’s increasingly pathetic and decidedly un-demonic noises, Aziraphale was deploying lots of sweet, sucking kisses on and around Crowley’s soaking wet opening with all the unrelenting tactical precision of Belisarius reconquering the Roman Empire for Justinian and Theodora. Considering that particular campaign had ended with the first triumph awarded to a Roman general since fucking Gaius Julius Caesar himself, Crowley was both curious and _terrified_ of where this particular incursion was going if this was the opening salvo.

It shouldn’t have surprised him in the least that Aziraphale apparently eats pussy with the same gusto and ardent enjoyment with which he eats everything else. Not to mention that if the pleased noises he was making were anything to go by, Crowley ranked somewhere between Revolutionary crêpes and the shekerbura from that one time in 7th century Transcaucasia which he still rhapsodises over sometimes while drunk. Crowley’s hands were in Aziraphale’s hair and he had no idea when that happened, but bless it if those curls weren’t just as soft as he always thought they would be. The angel’s arms were wrapped around his hips so he could hold him open, giving his tongue easy access to continue his assault on Crowley and render him an absolute shaking mess. 

Aziraphale pressed the flat of his tongue over Crowley’s opening and licked up from between his folds to his clit. His tongue was wide and thick in all the ways opposite Crowley’s serpentine one which was glorious, and he wasn’t sure if all the thoughts racing through his head, disjointed and wild, were being spoken or prayed as he begged Aziraphale desperately for more. Never one to disappoint, Aziraphale happily complied and dove back down to lavish his tongue’s attention on Crowley’s opening, and bobbed his head subtly so that his nose moved along Crowley’s clit, and the demon in question had never been so _glad_ that they didn’t have to breathe if they didn’t feel like it. 

The angel tensed his tongue and, suddenly, the lazy licks of all Crowley’s dreams come true turned into laser focused tongue-fucking. The slick, curling muscle pressed inside Crowley, pulling a loud, keening noise from him in response, and explored him shallowly. Aziraphale didn’t have a very long tongue, but Crowley couldn’t particularly bring himself to care with the way the heat of his breath and the utterly indecent sounds of Aziraphale lapping up his steadily flowing juices drove him wild. It felt like forever and it felt like only seconds until Aziraphale’s lips left him for just a moment and only the tip of his tongue traced up from hole to clit. 

“What the _blessed_ _fucking heaven!_ ” he whined as Aziraphale sucked on his swollen, aching clit, back arching like only someone with more vertebrae than the human standard could safely manage, while his thighs clenched tightly around the angel’s head. Aziraphale just hummed in smug satisfaction and approval, the heavy vibrations directly against his pelvis traveling up his spine and straight into the core of his true form in a soaring crescendo, and then Crowley’s vision was whiting out into roaring fire and light as he came like a tornado crashing through a Midwest farmhouse. 

Everything was so warm, sensation and ecstasy arcing like the lightning he could still vaguely see through the oculus, and everything smelt like books and wine and sex. Somehow he was feeling this in every single plane he inhabited all at once, which wasn’t something he’d previously thought was even fucking _possible,_ but you try telling that to a demon midway through the orgasm of his life and see how well it goes for you. His eyes were still rolling back in his head and he must have been close to yanking some of Aziraphale’s hair out, but the literal and figurative angel kept working him through it with soft, broad sweeps on his tongue and more of that fucking _humming_ which was still making his bones shudder, hips jerk and thighs tremble with all the force of a volcanic eruption.

By the time he’d come back down to Earth in a not entirely metaphorical sense, Aziraphale was back on his feet, leaning over him and gently stroking his hair as if there was nothing else he wanted to do ever again. The soft expression of angelic bliss was slightly ruined, however, by the roughness of his breathing and the flush high on his cheeks which reached down his neck towards his chest, to say nothing of the slick sheen of Crowley’s own wetness still dripping down his chin which he hadn’t bothered to clean off. 

_I did that,_ he thought to himself faintly as he reared up to capture those sinful lips with his own, shivering at the overwhelming experience of tasting himself in Aziraphale’s mouth. _He looks like that because of me._ But as good as kissing Aziraphale was there were so many other things he wanted to be doing right now.

Falling to his knees in front of Aziraphale felt so natural, like he’d gone through the motions so many times in his fantasies that his body just knew what to do. Fumbling awkwardly with his old-fashioned bloody fly-front pants was as endearing as it was annoying, but honestly he loved how stuffy and particular his angel could be when he liked something, holding on for far longer than most would think wise and never letting anyone else talk him out of anything until he was good and ready.[27]

While Aziraphale kept stroking his hair, Crowley eventually succeeded in his mission to unclothe the angel and yanked the blessed trousers and pants down his thighs in one smooth motion (which was far cooler a move in his head and a lot more desperate in reality). But before he could whine about how gorgeous Aziraphale’s cock was[28] and how if he couldn’t get it into his person in the next three seconds he was going to cry, he noticed something else which made him freeze on the spot like his thoughts were a vinyl record skipping over a scratch in the grooves.

Now, the scars from the War in Heaven had left their marks in different ways on all of them. It was most obvious in demons of course, but in the angels who were veterans of that first ever war it was visible in the scarred wounds on their true forms which bled through their corporations in bright metallic splashes and cracks of light if they weren't paying attention. 

For Crowley, it was a metric fuckton of PTSD, blackened wings, a broken halo and eyes which would never pass for human. 

For Aziraphale, it was apparently a huge splash of jagged Lichtenburg figures arcing across his thigh from his knee to his hip in the burning shimmer of Grace-gold.

"Hnnggk." Words were impossible, every speck of his attention occupied with being locked onto the _holy golden lightning_ splashed lasciviously across his angel’s corporation, and trying desperately not to cum again on the spot. 

“Are you alright, dearest?” asked Aziraphale as he stepped out of his remaining clothes himself since Crowley was clearly no longer in the position to assist, sounding equal parts amused and confused about why Crowley had finally gotten into his pants and promptly blue-screened like a Macbook being intimately introduced to a latte.

 _“Lightning.”_ He managed to force out with a truly herculean effort, one hand slowly snaking up to touch the edge of one of the beautiful lines with a single, trembling finger. It tingled, not quite enough to cause actual pain, but more than enough for him to know that he was touching a tiny piece of something sacred with his dirty sinners’ hands, and quite fittingly it was like the first jolt of electricity in the air which preceded a thunderstorm.

“Oh, that old thing?” Aziraphale said, looking a little self-conscious. “I know it’s a bit unsightly, usually I can hold it in better but I’m afraid the sight of you on your knees is very distracting.”

Normally Crowley would be a blushing, preening mess from the compliment, but right now he was understandably a bit preoccupied with wanting to find any and every person who had ever even in passing implied that Aziraphale isn’t the most perfect thing ever created by God’s hands and smiting them where they stood.[29]

“You’re _perfect,_ ” he hissed, tongue flickering out and righteous anger making him bold enough to run his hand over it firmly, the static making the small hairs on his body stand on end while his free hand curled gently around the hot, velvet hardness of Aziraphale’s weeping cock. Encouraged by the harsh intake of breath and the subtle shaking in his gorgeously thick thighs, Crowley nuzzled along the golden scar, lips dragging over it and tongue flickering out to taste his flushed skin. It was all sweat and ozone, and if the sweet, musky scent of precome beginning to drip down onto his fingers tasted even half as good as it smelled then Crowley might just have a new favourite delicacy. “How’re you so perfect, angel? Wanted this f’so long, _fuck_ I love you.” 

Aziraphale gasped, hands suddenly tightening in his hair, and it occurred to Crowley that while by now, surely it was obvious and Aziraphale had to have known, this was the first time he’d actually said it properly in so many words. 

He glanced up, needing to see Aziraphale’s reaction, and he was shaking imperceptibly, eyes shut closed like he was holding himself back from saying or doing something. Crowley had a moment of sheer bloody panic that he’d somehow mis-stepped, that he shouldn’t have said it, that while Aziraphale loved him well enough in his own angelic way and would like to do all manner of lovely things to his person he still didn’t actually want something as inevitably tainted as a demon’s love directed at him, and he was about to say something - anything - to make it okay for him to keep going even if it killed something inside him.

Then Aziraphale opened his eyes— _all of them_ —and the aura of his true form erupted out of his corporation until Crowley couldn't see anything else. 

* * *

Footnotes

20To be fair, very few were. There was only ever seven of them after all.[return to text]

21Impressive, really, considering he’d been pulling it off for quite some years before the reign of Queen Victoria even started, though there had been that delightful bit in Pre-Revolutionary France when he’d really embraced living his best hedonistic life.[return to text]

22Mainly so as not to accidentally immolate any human soul which wandered into the wrong area, but also kind of due to the difficulty of designing standardised architecture when trying to cater to such a diverse range of beings.[return to text]

23One of the main areas in which most angels and demons failed to understand the complexities of physical existence (which wasn't just the generalised woeful ignorance about the human condition which came standard for them) was reconciling the disparity between human and celestial instincts, the conflicting automatic responses and core programming by which their two states simultaneously operated. Humans do things like blink and breathe and go to Ikea and that's just on the meat side of things, to say nothing of what neurochemistry and social conditioning bring into the equation. Though to be fair, if you were to try and shove a human soul into the driving seat of a suitably angelic or demonic trueform and this didn't just result in gibbering madness and/or immolation, they'd have had just as much difficulty understanding what the Somebody was going on and why the bloody fuck there were so many colours.[return to text]

24Others had come and gone, but they tended to be sent Up/Down with specific project goals in mind as opposed to their own permanent status of field agents, and weren't there indefinitely.[return to text]

25It was not a lot on the best of days, granted, and even less while being beset by a horny, determined Aziraphale, but surely he gets points for effort.[return to text]

26By this point as far as Crowley was concerned it probably was, though to be honest She was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about right now.[return to text]

27It gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, if he was good enough and did everything right, that maybe Aziraphale really would keep him just like he’d said, even if he was long past his prime and a bit too well worn around the edges.[return to text]

28Seriously, it was so deliciously thick and he had no idea how he’d gone this long without so much as laying eyes on it except for a few trips to the bathhouses in Rome, but that hardly counted when Aziraphale wasn't gloriously erect like he was right now.[return to text]

29Nevermind that he hadn’t been able to smite for longer than Time had existed, it was the principal (or the Principality) of the thing, bless it.[return to text]


	4. The evidence of things unseen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks as always to my beta Brynncognito for being a champion, to sosobriquet for helping me figure out how to knit some things in this chapter together last night which led to one of the best writing sessions I've had in forever, my amazing artist Danderlion13 who contributed the _absolutely fucking incredible art_ for this chapter, and to all of you who are reading and commenting, I can't thank you all enough. 
> 
> I'm flat out finishing up the last two chapters by my midnight tomorrow deadline, but once everything is up I will be going back through and responding to all of your lovely comments! Y'all have been saying the loveliest things and I can't even explain how much it makes my day when I see a new one, eep. Hugs and love my darling perverts, we're in the home stretch now <3

It was like a star had come to Earth and set up residence in the book shop to proclaim good tidings and peace on fucking Earth.

Aziraphale was glowing golden _perfect_ , made of every kind of light and love which had shaped the world and the glittering cosmos beyond it, and even though on some level it hurt to be this close to the radiant presence of an angel, Crowley was so in love (and just enough of a masochist) that even if God Herself showed up at the front door and tried to make him leave he would tell Her in no uncertain terms to fuck off because _he was having a moment here._

Light and sound and colour were unfolding, a shining fractal eruption of Creation and Love which solidified into the kind of image only ever glimpsed by prophets and saints in fever dreams. Crowley’s human brain was struggling to comprehend the bending of reality necessary to accommodate something which by rights should span forever but somehow managed to fit in/on/around a still mostly human form, but what he could glimpse emerging through the skin of the world was something he hadn’t seen in a very long time. There were more eyes than he could count right now, each one a new shade of jewel-bright brilliance, and _every single one of them_ was focused on Crowley. 

Most angels didn’t have eyes like this, you understand. While for some they could reflect their role or purpose[30], for most of them their eyes were the pure, blinding white of the most flawless of diamond, reflecting nothing but the light of Heaven and the Almighty. A perfect representation of their absolute purity and absolute emptiness.

Not Aziraphale, though. Not his sentimental, hedonistic bastard of an angel. It was no wonder that the other angels had never really understood him or accepted him, when he wore every moment of his existence on Earth proudly like they were badges of honour instead of the shameful failing all those arrogant bastards seem to think they were.

The first pearly grey droplets of rain while looking east of Eden, the lapis blue of the Ishtar Gate, a rich wood brown which was the exact shade of the Globe Theatre and the Ark both, the sunlit green of St James Park in the springtime, the ruby red drops of a carpenter from Galilee bleeding out into the sand, even one the same rich purple as his favourite kind of blackberry jam. Every single treasured moment of Aziraphale’s life on Earth was reflected back in technicolour from the depths of his Grace, and all of them were shared with Crowley, the only other being who had been there from the Beginning as well and knew how precious they were. He recognised flashes of colours from lands and civilisations lost to the sands of time, some they'd witnessed together and others he'd never known Aziraphale had seen as well, and he was momentarily lost in the bittersweet pangs of nostalgia.

"Angel..." he breathed, overcome and close to either weeping or genuflecting. Maybe both. "You are so fucking beautiful."

“Thank you.” Sighed Aziraphale from all of his mouths, looking significantly more relaxed as he stretched out his wings, but whatever had tipped him over the edge and into partial manifestation was still making him hone in on the kneeling demon at his feet like he was surveying an enemy city about to be beset with holy wrath.

It was a good look on him.[31] Though it did raise a very important point which he felt compelled to address.

"You told me you were a Principality."[32] He said faintly, in a desperate effort to suppress the urge to start screaming hallelujah. 

"Well I wasn't lying about that." Aziraphale sniffed, still as prim as ever despite the sudden excess of limbs and faces upon his person. He even had a slightly layered reverb to his voice as if his vocal chords had doubled up on themselves a few times and some had decided they’d like to give a go at being bells for the day, or maybe solar flares, and it was just so wonderfully _him_ that Crowley thought he might be falling in love all over again. 

Feeling both awestruck and more than a little apprehensive, Crowley eyed the glowing sceptre made of gold and electrum which was so lavishly decadent it could have made even Pope Alexander VI blush[33], the way the matching crown rotated gently above his heads in time with the rhythmic pulse of Enochian runes radiating out from his halo. "No, you sure weren't."

He really was the strangest creature, with a Cherub's four heads and four wings but also a Principality's crown and sceptre of office. Because apparently someone had decided it would be a great idea to take the defining traits of the two most fanatically protective Choirs ever created, and shove them all into one gloriously petty arsehole with a predilection for sushi, first-editions and malicious compliance. As it wasn’t a full manifestation, Aziraphale's human face was still that of his corporation, though it was a little smoother thanks to all the radiance, a little less nice and lived in. The lion head on his left was watching Crowley through pleased, half-lidded eyes and the right-side eagle head was constantly scanning their surroundings for threats or points of interests, while the ox head just visible at the back was apparently occupied with silently holding vigil, ready to defend at a moment's notice. 

Seeing first-hand the most literal evidence of Aziraphale's oh so human compassion, his passionate love of indulgent pleasure, his watchful curiosity and even his determined protectiveness, it was actually nothing short of a miracle that Crowley had never put the pieces together earlier and realised that perhaps his angel wasn't quite your standard, garden-variety Principality. Suddenly, it almost didn't matter that Aziraphale just given him the best orgasm Crowley had ever experienced in his entire life; it seemed impossible that a creature this pure and beautiful could possibly want something like him.

“I am terribly sorry about this,” Aziraphale continued, nervously running his hand across some of the engraved detailing on the sceptre like he normally would his waistcoat buttons. “It wasn’t exactly my intent to, ah, have a manifestation issue. I haven’t exactly had this kind of thing happen before.” 

Didn’t some infomercials start like this? Crowley tried to focus on remembering one of them so he didn’t get lost in remembering how badly Aziraphale had taken his accidental confession. “S’fine, angel. You’re beautiful, you’re always beautiful.”

Aziraphale beamed, quite literally-- the light output he was generating jumped up a measurable amount along with his smile. “You are too kind, dearest. I do hope it hasn’t quite spoiled the mood though, because I believe we had some plans.”

“Wha-” Crowley spluttered, disbelieving and borderline incredulous. “You still want me?” _Him_ , the absolute mess of a traumatized, reckless, self-loathing demon?

Aziraphale’s human head cocked to one side in confusion along with the eagle head, while the lion head hadn’t moved from where it had been staring him down as though he was something small and squirming in the grass. “Why on earth wouldn’t I still want you, Crowley?”

He managed to hold in the urge to be a smartarse and ask if Aziraphale wanted Crowley to list his sins chronologically, alphabetically or by severity, but only just.[34] While he didn’t think it likely he was going to be smote out of existence for his chronic backchat given the circumstances, pressing his luck while kneeling naked at the feet of a half-manifested Cherub with a raging hard-on and accidentally getting blessed all the way back to the Second Circle was just ridiculous enough to be a distinct possibility for how this evening was going to end.

“Um.” He licked his lips, still swollen from kissing and tasting faintly of Aziraphale and his own slick. “Is this a trick question?”

Aziraphale was starting to pass from confused into concerned, with a brief stopover at suspicious. “Why would it be?”

“Because…” Fuck, where to even _begin_?

Clearly dissatisfied with his silence, Aziraphale reached out towards Crowley with two hands, the other pair still holding the sceptre to his chest like a bouquet, and although it was all he wanted, Crowley flinched away from his touch. As soon as he did it he felt awful, not because he regretted it but because he regretted having been the reason why Aziraphale’s face fell, automatically yanking his hands back at the implicit rejection.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” It wasn’t fair that he had so many more eyes to look at him like that with. It wasn’t even the sad little pout he got when he was being a diva but _actually_ upset. “You don’t, that is to say, you’re not concerned I would _hurt you_ , are you?”

“Of course not.” He lied, though in his defense he wasn’t lying about it in the way Aziraphale would probably have thought. The fact that direct contact with more of his angel’s trueform than the delicate lines of his lightning scars would likely result in less of a mild, pleasantly sharp tingle for him and more along the lines of the soaring agony of consecrated ground was pretty much a foregone conclusion, though he was self-aware enough to know that wasn’t a dealbreaker. But for all that he’d happily endure whatever pain Aziraphale deigned to bestow on him and probably thank him afterwards, he wouldn’t risk the reverse happening. Not for anything.

“Crowley.”

He hissed a breath out through his teeth and didn’t answer. They were sharper than usual, and his forked tongue was even thinner and more sensitive than ever, the scent-taste of divinity and sex and storm in the air blending to make him lightheaded. 

Aziraphale’s voice cracked through the bookshop like a whip, echoing off the stacks as lightning flashed in time with him. _“Crowley.”_

“Fuck,” he whined, panting heavily. “Angel, you can’t just--”

“You will find there’s very little I can’t do where you’re concerned these days, my love.” Even with the clear hurt in every single one of his rainbow eyes, there was steel in his words. 

“It’s dangerous, angel,” he tried to explain, shoving down all the words he wanted to say instead. “For you, not for me. I’m not worth it.”

Until that moment Aziraphale’s flight wings had been folded comfortably along his back while the smaller pair of modesty wings were tucked in underneath them out of the way, but at Crowley’s words they both sprung open, flaring up angrily into an arching dominance display. The instinctive reaction to curve his shoulders lower and forwards towards the ground was too strong for Crowley to ignore, and he held himself as if his own wings were manifested as well and splayed out across the floor in submission. Like this, there was no sign of the soft, fluttering bookshop owner here. Right now Aziraphale was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden surveying his domain, and Crowley - still nude and hunched over, kneeling at his feet with all his feelings laid out between them - was absolutely the most vulnerable he’d ever been since he crawled his way out of the sulphur on his belly, and he knew with a painful kind of certainty that if Aziraphale gave him the slightest push he’d be on his belly again for him right now.

“You are _mine,_ Crowley, and if I say you’re worth it then you are worth everything.” There wasn’t just steel in his voice anymore but an entire flaming sword. “You love me, and I love you, and there is _nothing_ in Creation more important or powerful than Love. How could you possibly hurt me?”

“You don’t understand.”

“So explain it to me, then.” 

_You don’t understand, what if I ruin you, angel,_ Crowley thought desperately, the sick heaviness of old shame and resignation sticking to the inside of his ribs. _It’s more than enough that you’ve fallen for me, more than I ever thought I’d get to have, but I won’t let you Fall as well. I’m so scared that once I get my hands on you I won’t ever be able to stop, that all the things I’ve held back and pushed down will pour out and flood the Earth. We’ve already seen that happen once before, we know how it ends._

“It’s safe as long as we’re in our corporations, isn’t it?” he said instead. “A body’s a body, no matter who you file the paperwork with to get it, but this isn’t like that. You’re--” _resplendant, a miracle, sacred, the music of the spheres_ “--an angel, divine, the holiest of holies, and I’m--” _Fallen, cast out, apostate, the damned_ “--a demon, and therefore none of that. At the core of our natures we are diametrically opposed, purity and corruption, and after everything we’ve been through together if I’m the one who takes away your light? If _I’m responsible_ for making you Fall, for unmaking you from the perfect thing you are into something neither of us recognises, then I will _never_ forgive myself, Aziraphale. I’d rather take a swandive into holy water after all than do that to you.”

“Oh, my sweet darling.” Aziraphale whispered, so much sorrow in his voice it could have drowned Soho.

Crowley stared at the ground, giving in to the urge to slump over even further so he could press his face into his arms and not have to look at him. “No one who loves someone condemns them to that. No one.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from above him, the moment heavy with unspoken implication and the soft susurration of feathers. Then two warm hands with manicured fingers which thrummed with ethereal splendour stroked down through his messy hair until they could reach his jaw and lift his face up towards the light. All he could see was Aziraphale down on one knee to bring himself closer to Crowley, his faces, the halo of blonde curls backlit by the even more literal halo, the two beautiful pairs of white wings curling down to mantle protectively around him while his eyes - oh, Someone, _all those eyes_ \- stared into him like he was the answer to every question the angel had never dared to ask out loud.

“You could never taint me, Crowley.” He said softly, but resolutely, brushing his curls back off his forehead and tracing patterns down the side of his face. It was only when the slow, creeping warmth sparked to life into a bright heat between them that he realised that must be where his scales were peeking out of his corporation. 

They’d never been so close before. Never had their true forms been swimming so near the surface of the ocean-deep expanses of their selves, not at the same time, and they had definitely never touched quite like this. Crowley felt the heat travel through the atoms where they joined, every single damned and blessed one, and it burrowed down into all the places where the human-shaped being he seemed to be became something else, lighting him up from the inside with a gasp. One which was mirrored from Aziraphale’s own pink-kissed mouth, the electricity and starfire energy of Creation they’d both been made of resonating together for the briefest, roughly eternal fraction of a second and echoing out into the air, where it put the storm to shame.

“Do you know why I know that?” Aziraphale asked, nuzzling along his cheekbone and making them both shiver. His lion head tentatively licked along one of the scale patches with a thick, coarse tongue and managed to hit his snake tattoo as well, and the resulting wave of inhuman desire which swept between them was enough to take Crowley from zero to gasping in moments, a new trickle of wetness leaking down his thigh onto the carpet.

“Why’sss that, angel?” He asked, staring up at his human face in a daze.

“You’re already a part of me, Crowley, for far longer than I ever knew or was able to admit. How could you ruin me when you’ve been in my heart ever since the day we met?”

Crowley stifled a sob, pinching his lips together so they wouldn’t let anything slip out even while he was lost in bittersweet euphoria and exultation he still didn’t think he deserved. Then his angel shifted again, leaning back to stand and spreading his wings wide once more, and Crowley nearly fucking discorporated on the spot because _Aziraphale was closing his eyes._

This was just not done, you understand.

Angels were made to bear witness, to _See_ everything and always, and for one to close every single one of their eyes was unheard of. Especially for an angel like Aziraphale - a fucking _Cherub-turned-Principality_ whose express purpose was to guard and protect - for him to go against all those Grace-deep celestial instincts and close every one of his beautiful eyes while in the presence of a demon? It was as much a surrender as it was a demonstration of absolute trust, and one Crowley wasn’t remotely prepared for despite everything. 

He was just hysterically thinking how there was nothing else the angel could possibly have done prove that he really was all in when - still keeping all of those lovely rainbow eyes closed - the smaller set of delicately folded empyrean wings protecting Aziraphale's heart swept open.

Now, all angels have at minimum one pair of flight wings, that was kind of what the whole angel thing was about. Various Choirs might have different configurations in the wing department which fulfill different functions as befitted their appointed roles. The Seraphim, for example, had a total of three pairs including their crown wings, a smaller set on their head which framed their halo and (when necessary) covered their face to protect themselves from the Almighty's Light. But there was another set of wings which every angel has regardless of their Sphere or Choir, and that was the small but incredibly strong pair which protects their heart[35]. 

An angel's heart was not so much an organ which pumped blood and oxygen around the way it was for humans or physical beings, mainly because angels don't exactly have blood or organs as any human would understand it.[36] Instead, it was more like the central core of their being, the exact point in the multidimensional weave of forever which the Almighty had plucked like a lyre to bring them into existence, and it was pretty much the most vulnerable and private part of their entire everything. Even the more delicate kinds of modesty wings could be healed eventually with proper care, but an angel's heart was only ever what it was made to be, and not unlike when visiting a pretentious designer store, if you broke it you bought it. One harsh blow or even just some careless handling, and everything which made them would at best case be made different, and worst case just plain unmade.[37]

And Aziraphale had just unfurled his core wings and bared all of himself to Crowley. With every single one of his burning eyes closed tight, he was relying completely on not only a demon's mercy but also his protection should anything try to ambush them, and not once since his Fall had anyone ever trusted him so completely with so much.

Crowley's first thought was that Aziraphale's heart was _perfect_. 

It was so fucking glorious in every possible meaning of the word that he didn't know if he wanted to curl up around it so he could protect it from the entire God damned world, or sink his teeth in and never let go. Crowley’s second thought was derailed somewhere in the rough vicinity of Alpha Centauri when the angel opened the small constellation of eyes surrounding his heart, and then Aziraphale was immediately somehow even more exposed than he had been a moment ago when they were shut. Because at his core - the pulsing angelic heart of him and the most intrinsic part of Aziraphale's entire being - his eyes were _yellow_. 

Every single perfect one of them was the exact shade of yellow Crowley hated more than any other, caught somewhere between sulphur and gold like it couldn’t quite make up its mind whether it was damned or in denial. The same yellow as Crowley’s own eyes. 

Part of him knew exactly what it meant that in the deepest, most secret part of himself Aziraphale was wearing Crowley’s curse-taint yellow as his own, but the rest of him balked at the insinuation. With growing hysteria he remembered how for a while it had been fashionable to carry a locket with a painting of a lover’s eye and nothing else, the secret thrill of loudly declaring your devotion while staying safely anonymous, and he wondered if his angel picked it up from the humans or if maybe they’d picked it up from him. Because however much he was trying to find any other possible explanation, there was nothing more personal than his own eyes staring out of his beloved’s heart, and they both knew it.

“Do you see?” Aziraphale said softly, his yellow gaze piercing Crowley through more violently than a flaming sword ever could.

“Angel.” He whimpered, lost in _those eyes_ looking back at him just like She used to once upon a time before Time. Like he was someone who _mattered._

“You have been a part of me for so long, Crowley,” he confessed gently, as if Crowley was about to make a break from the corral and be lost alone in the floodwaters. “I don’t even know exactly for how long. I just looked one day, and one of them was staring out at the rest of me. And over the years more of them slowly changed from white to yellow.”

“I never...” Crowley trailed off, not even knowing which of his racing thoughts he was trying to articulate. “How long?”

Aziraphale pointed towards one of the eyes closest to where the human heart of his corporation was kept. It even bloody _winked_ at him when he made eye contact with it, which was altogether far too ridiculously adorable for someone currently rocking the eldritch lite look. “The first one was sometime between Eden and the Flood. One by one, they all began to reflect you, and it was terrifying at first. I was so scared the other angels would find out, or that you’d know somehow and use it against me.”

Even though he knew it was long in the past, the idea that Aziraphale had ever thought him capable of something like that still hurt. “I’d never. Not even in the Beginning, angel; there’s no world in which I could ever hurt you, not on purpose.”

“I know that now my, beloved,” he said gently, one of the hands not holding the sceptre coming up to stroke his hair again, and Crowley almost collapsed into both the sensation and the reassurance it provided. “But you remember what it’s like to have them on your shoulder. After the First War, upper management tightened their grip so viciously on the rest of us to try and prevent anything from happening ever again. It was stifling, Crowley. I know it’s all gone corporate now, which is bad enough, but back then you wouldn’t have recognised it from how Heaven was in the Before.”

“No,” he said softly. “I probably wouldn’t.”

“But then I realised, every time they changed, it was always after I got a glimpse of your kindness, your mercy, your compassion, how even if you weren’t Good you could be _Right,_ and I think that scared me most of all. Because if when I was trying to do the Right thing I would always think about what a demon could do if they were here, well, what kind of angel would that possibly make me?”

Crowley felt faint, like he was adrift at sea and just waiting to be swallowed by the waves. “The best angel there ever was. One who apparently has very low standards in acquaintances if I’m the best example you’ve got to go by.” 

Aziraphale’s answering glare could have stripped paint, especially considering with all those eyes it was happening in the visual equivalent of surround sound, both in terms of the panorama and how it was making the air vibrate.

He shook his head. “I’m still a demon, no matter how many good deeds I’m apparently checking off your blessed list. What I might or might not _do_ doesn’t change what I _am_.”

“Darling, I don’t love you because you conform to my idea of what a good person is or does.” Aziraphale wasn’t as exasperated at his stubborn disagreement as he usually was, patiently running his fingers through Crowley’s hair as if he knew exactly how much it was helping to ground him. “I love you because you flatly refuse to conform to anyone’s idea of what the Right thing to do is but your own, but if you believe that something is Right or Wrong you won’t bend on it, not for anything. While you’ve not always been in a position to dictate all of your own actions, you have always gone out of your way to find clever work-arounds to try and help make the world a little less cruel whenever possible. And when you couldn’t you have never tried to explain it away or justify it when you couldn’t avoid doing something which you found morally reprehensible. It ate at you even when you pretended that it didn’t, you’ve always cared far too much for it to not.”

“Angel,” Crowley begged, chest heaving, and he didn’t know if he was begging for Aziraphale to stop showering him in all this molten praise, or to never, ever stop. _“Please.”_

Aziraphale just smiled beatifically, core wings finally closing over his heart again, and his lion head was purring. “I could list dates if you needed, locations and catastrophes the world over, the names of people whose lives or ability to smile you saved from tragedy. I could even list all the times you’ve saved me. But you know all of them, Crowley, I know you never forget any of them, no matter how much you try to drink or sleep it away when it all gets to be too much. But I do know something that you don’t know.”

Even drowning in bliss, Crowley looked at him suspiciously. “And what’s that?”

The shining golden angel - the bastard love of his entire immortal life - leaned over and cupped Crowley’s face with one hand, running a thumb gently over his bottom lip before pushing it inside his mouth with all the slow, relentless pressure of the ocean wearing away the shore, and he whimpered as he sucked on it desperately. “All the lovely ways I am going to show you just how special you are, all the ways I’m going to fill you up with all the love and attention and desire you’ve been craving all this time. Oh, my love, my beautiful, darling demon, I am going to give you _everything_ you have ever wanted, I promise. And you’re going to be a very good boy and take it all for me, aren’t you, Crowley?”

* * *

Footnotes

30The Powers in particular were known for often having a few of their eyes reflect the colours of the various heavenly bodies they were charged with supervising, though as they didn’t spend a lot of time in Heaven thanks to said supervising it was kind of the ethereal equivalent of not wearing pants while working from home, because even if you had to Skype your boss for something they wouldn’t be able to tell anyway.[return to text]

31So good, in fact, that Crowley could think of little more than being beset with Aziraphale's holy wrath in numerous and varied positions. He’d amassed quite a list of possibilities over the years you see, and was delighted that so far it looked like at least well over half of them were potentially on the table.[return to text]

32Crowley remembered that conversation very clearly (or at least the first half of it) because that had been the first time he and Aziraphale had engaged in the by now time-honoured tradition of getting drunk together and complaining about their bosses. They’d had a wonderful time enjoying the Babylonian’s obsession with beer making, but while looking for somewhere decent to stargaze once they drank every inn on the street dry they’d had an unfortunate run in with a certain tower, which was under construction but had not been adequately signposted, and the rest, as they say, is history.[return to text]

33A notoriously difficult thing to accomplish considering the pontiff had a flair for hedonism which possibly rivalled Aziraphale’s, though Crowley had managed it just once in 1501 at a certain much-maligned banquet, with only an apothecary’s measuring flask, a handful of chestnuts and a heavily embroidered silk partlet, but then again those Borgias always were a good time even when they weren’t trying to shag, blackmail or murder each other.[return to text]

34The first list (at least according to some) would start with a question made to one who should, ostensibly, never be questioned, while the beginning of the other two would be the exact same thing, just the word Aziraphale. [return to text]

35They were never counted as an official pair when describing how many wings an angel had for the same reason a human being didn't include their ribs when describing their limbs.[return to text]

36Not without a working understanding of quantum everything and maths which involved imaginary numbers anyway, not to mention a near-fatal quantity of psychedelics.[return to text]

37When an angel Falls they’re emptied, unravelled, hollowed out until there's nothing left which could quite remember exactly what it was like to be in Her Grace, just what it felt like to lose it. Negative space matters, the way we navigate around something can tell us a lot about the shape and density of the something in question. So the few demons who dared to look inside after they Fell, to scream themselves raw and bloody into the gaping void in the centre of their beings until their throats gave out just to see how much it echoed, they knew the horrible truth: that once they’d held forever in their hearts and it had Loved them. Because no matter how long they screamed the echo never came, just like how thanks to their choices they would never feel Her Love again. Of all the demons who had done this, Crowley was the only one who made it out of the sulphur.[return to text]


	5. Will you be my better nature?

In the Beginning (or near enough as never mind) there were exactly two types of Principality: the kind who were overjoyed at the prospect of meeting the creatures called humans who would be their charges, and the kind who were quietly (and then not so quietly) furious that their entire existence was predicated on babysitting some other, apparently lesser species which somehow still got all of their Mother's attention. 

Thanks to a (quite literally) Almighty personnel reshuffle after losing half of the entire Host to the First War and the Fall respectively, it had been decided that there were more than enough Cherubim and that Principality was the role Aziraphale would be reassigned to fulfill. But while Aziraphale had accepted what most had considered a shameful demotion with grace (and no small amount of quietly hidden relief), the fact remained that he had been created a Cherub, and while for the most part the status had been an ill-fitting suit gladly replaced, some deep part of him had never really forgot what it was like for your whole world to revolve around the protection of someone else's. 

For all that Earth and its many pleasures were far more to his taste these days, the first vaguely timeless eternity of his existence spent guarding Her Throne with his Choir was something of a formative experience, and even now one he found himself constantly playing out in miniature[38]. On the outside it might have looked like Greed or even Pride, but he knew he treated his books and his bookstore as if they were his kingdom, and simply acted in their defence accordingly if he felt they were being threatened or in danger of not being looked after properly were he to let them go to the wrong person. 

Some might think a dusty antique bookstore in Soho was a significant downgrade from Eden and the literal Throne of God, but despite all of his years wandering the Earth, this was the first time Aziraphale had properly claimed something of his own with the intention of permanence[39] beyond a single human lifetime, a Paradise of his own making whole and entire, and he treasured every single brick and page of it. 

There was a reason most of the vacancies of Principality were filled by Cherubim, and that was because regardless of scale and application, the core tenet of both Choirs were protection and guardianship. Names are important, how you think of and label yourself is important, so no matter what role he'd been created to fulfill, as soon as Aziraphale had begun to call himself a Principality in earnest that is what he became.

It had been difficult, at first, shedding the worst of his hard-wired protective nature so as not to overwhelm the humans he had consorted with over the years. Hedonist that he was, Aziraphale had taken to the many and varied sexual acts humans concocted with aplomb, though he still worried a bit that he’d been, well, a little _intense_ for those first unfortunate souls, so soon after being issued his first corporation.[40] Over time he’d learned to temper his divine nature well enough so as not to overwhelm the poor dears quite so much, though there was always a bit of a learning curve when he was discorporated and issued a new body.[41] And right now, with his corporation still in the immediately post-Antichrist ordained factory reset stage, Aziraphale was positively _brimming_ with raw ferocity and possessive instinct.

Sucking gently on the thumb Aziraphale had put in his mouth like it was all he wanted to ever do again, Crowley was on his knees staring up at Aziraphale as if he'd been the one of the two of them who had literally hung the stars in the sky, as if he wasn’t just a stuffy man-shaped shopkeeper or the greatest angelic failure since Satan himself, but the Beginning and the End of the demon's entire world. 

The feeling was so heady and divine he was nearly sick with how good it was. The abject worship in his beloved's golden eyes setting all those long-suppressed parts of himself which expected _(demanded)_ reverence alight like so many votive candles in a cathedral, not so much toeing the line of blasphemy as it was striding up to it in a titty bar and righteously tongue-fucking it.

There was no doubt in Aziraphale's mind that he could have asked anything, taken anything, done _anything_ he wanted to Crowley right now, and all the precious boy would say was thank you. 

He'd mean it, too, because Aziraphale had seen this so many times over the years, and kneeling before him in supplication like a sinner in a sepulchre was that indefinable thing which whole faiths were built on, idolatry and golden calves and the sacrifice on top of the Mount all at once. Above all, it was the proudest and most incredible creature Aziraphale had ever known willingly (and if the desperate panting was anything to go by, with great enthusiasm) submitting and surrendering in totality to him and him alone. 

Crowley hadn't even done that for _God_.

The curve of the demon's back was pure temptation, every gasp and moan and pleading whimper a hymn, and _it was all for Aziraphale._ It wasn't even sexual, or at least not only that. No, it was worship. Pure and not remotely simple, but undeniable, and not something which it should even have been possible for Crowley to give him. After all, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen. Demons are, by definition, what happens when a being created to love and be loved loses it. 

But not Crowley. Never his Crowley. The type of hope which had let him love Aziraphale for so long without ever expecting it to be returned, how could it be anything but faith?

Neither of them had fit in properly with their former sides for a while now, if they ever really had at all. Crowley in particular had always been an outlier, just like Aziraphale in his own way, and he’d always been so giving, too. Ever since that first time they met on the Wall looking east of Eden, and instead of attacking or ridiculing him the demon had given Aziraphale the reassurance he needed, had told him that he hadn't done the wrong thing by being compassionate instead of righteous. Even then it had felt unfair to have nothing more to give in return but a wing to shield him from the worst of the rain, and so many times over the years since, Aziraphale had looked back at that first encounter, recognising only with the benefit of hindsight and the intimate knowledge of long acquaintance how gingerly Crowley had held himself, like he was just waiting for the ground to disappear from beneath him. Oh, how he’d wished so many times that he had taken the freshly Fallen angel in his arms, that Aziraphale had just held Crowley until all that tension had bled out of him and he knew he was going to be okay, that they were on Earth now, together, and they had their whole lives ahead of them.

Luckily, Aziraphale was spared from a proper spiral full of regret and missed chances and _millennia_ of wishful thinking when Crowley’s teeth ( _fangs_ , really, and wasn’t that a titillating thought) scraped just slightly against the pad of his thumb, drawing an involuntary noise of pleasure from his throat. Aziraphale let his thumb slip free with some reluctance so he could get a proper look at him again.

By now it was clear Crowley was having some difficulty coping with the aura of holiness Aziraphale was leaking into the atmosphere like a nuclear reactor with broken containment, his blown-wide eyes yellow from corner to corner and still having trouble focusing on anything, mouth parted just enough for him to see a glimpse of sharp fangs. The scales had long since marched up from his feet and now teased Aziraphale with their vibrance against the flushed too-human skin, patches of red and black like a bloodslick oil spill on his belly and chest, the sides of his neck and the undersides of his wrists, even those delicate ones along the high angles of his cheekbones he’d been having so much fun exploring, edging up along his hairline to where they disappeared into the thoroughly mussed red curls framing his face. He knew that the silly dear could be self-conscious about his more serpentine features, but Aziraphale had always adored them, especially because he had only ever seen them when Crowley was allowing himself to be properly relaxed and vulnerable around Aziraphale. The physical expression of that trust, more apparent now than ever before without any fabric in the way, was going to his head like incense during High Mass.[42]

It made him feel powerful, and bold. And more than a little curious.

Curious as to how far he could take this, and needing to test just how far Crowley’s apparent proclivity for masochism went, Aziraphale pressed the slender tip of his golden sceptre against the demon’s lower lip and watched, entranced, as instead of flinching away his mouth opened obediently for it just like he knew it would for his cock. If just the radiance of his divinity was causing discomfort, then direct contact with a holy object must have hurt, it was even making Crowley’s lips redden as he watched, but still his beautiful eyes dropped to half-mast while his forked tongue flickered out to caress the blessed metal with a pained whimper. Carding his fingers through all that sinful red hair Aziraphale made an informed assessment and, tightening his grip on the holy symbol of his office, slowly pushed the sceptre into his demon’s waiting mouth. 

Crowley's eyes widened in shock, the sharp increase in pain snapping him back into the moment as he briefly choked on the burn of hard metal. But from the way his hands immediately came up to clutch onto Aziraphale's thighs as he tried to pull himself closer - to say nothing of how desperately he whined in the back of his throat - Aziraphale could tell how much he was thoroughly enjoying the sacrilegious burn of it. Feeling very much of the opinion that if Crowley's throat could manage that it wasn’t nearly busy enough for his liking, Aziraphale used the hands in his hair to tilt his head back and slowly pushed the scepter further in. There was no need to rush, after all, they had all the time in the world now. He could see Crowley relaxing his throat so he could swallow around it with the utter lack of a gag reflex a snake, tears in his eyes but a blissful expression on his face the deeper it reached. 

Lazily fucking Crowley's mouth with his sceptre while the beautiful demon just knelt there and _took it_ was far more thrilling than it had any right to be, and Aziraphale could feel himself getting closer and closer to losing the last tattered scraps of his already patchy self-control. The soft little choking noises were positively scandalous, and he was getting far too absorbed in wringing as many of them out of Crowley as he could manage despite his own aching need to bury himself[43] in _that mouth_ which he’d spent actual ages fantasising about.

"You like this." Aziraphale observed as he slowly pulled the sceptre free, feeling contemplative and also like after that display he might actually be the first one of them to have a go at unhinging his jaw and attempting to swallow the other whole.

"Courssse I do, angel," Crowley slurred, voice raw from the holy burns tracing from his lips down to God only knew where and clearly loving how possessiveness looked on Aziraphale, especially when it was all for him. "It'sss you."

"You're so lovely on your knees for me," he cooed, entranced by the potential of all the liberties Crowley was allowing him to take with his person, and deeply curious as to how far he could really take this when it was obvious how badly his demon needed it, just how wonderful he could make him feel. "You'd let me do anything to you right now, wouldn't you, darling?"

Following the question, Crowley's eyes were very wide, and something so fragile and so heartbreakingly desperate was lurking deep inside them. "Yesss." 

"Would you like me to?" he asked as he stroked Crowley’s hair some more, the soft strands putting silk to shame. 

"Wha-"

"Do anything to you."

 _"Oh."_ Crowley’s abused throat visibly swallowed as his tongue flickered out to taste the air. 

“I need your words, darling.”

“Um, yeah,” he breathed, as softly as an exhale of air. “Yeah angel, anything you want.” 

Crowley had never been more Tempting to Aziraphale than he was in this exact moment, not even in Rome or the Bastille did he feel this Grace-deep hunger which was making him tighten his fingers in Crowley’s hair, drawing another delightful little whine out of him. The best part was that he knew the demon wasn’t even trying. There were no wiles here it was just Crowley, his love, his absolute surrender and desire to give Aziraphale anything he wanted.

And what Aziraphale wanted was Crowley. 

It wasn’t even that he was stunningly gorgeous and in dire need of a good ravishing, he wanted _all_ of Crowley. His grace was thrumming under his skin like a thundercloud just waiting for the right moment, and if he wasn't already half spilling out of his corporation he would have probably been fucking him over the furniture by now. All he could think about was the demon kneeling reverently at his feet - _his demon_ \- and how all he wanted to do was hide him away from everything in the entire fucking world and beyond. To smother him in his wings until their essences blended and merged into a symphony of light and shadows and love.

There's an idea, actually. "Will you get your wings out for me please, my love?"

"Hnngk." For a creature as talkative as Crowley was, he seemed to be remarkably prone to becoming a tongue-tied, nonverbal mess when he was flustered. It was positively endearing, but Aziraphale would never hear the end of it if he brought it up, so he doesn't. "W-what?"

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, the ancient instincts singing urgency in his heart not liking the delay. "Am I going to have to ask you a second time, Crowley?"

If he thought Crowley's pupils had been dilated before, by now they could almost pass for human. For a moment he looked so lost he swayed a little, only held upright by his death grip on Aziraphale's legs and the hand in his hair. How _ very _ interesting.

"'M sorry angel[44]." He whispered, nuzzling into the lightning gold on Aziraphale's thigh in apology, and then his wings were unfurling from the pocket dimension he kept them stored in and Aziraphale was overcome with the fierce desire to pin him down for a moment like an entomologist's display, just so he could have a few seconds longer to drink in how gorgeous he looked with his wings spread wide and helpless.

Wings as black as the empty space between stars spread across the open space under the oculus, each feather as pristine and neatly arranged as the furniture in a display home. Aziraphale wanted to smooth them down himself anyway, or maybe ruffle them up just for the sensual pleasure of being able to drag his hands through them. Crowley's wings smelled like a snake made of brimstone and ozone and iron, like Jörmungandr crafted from hellfire and deep space and blood. Aziraphale would know that scent anywhere, but now it was so much stronger. 

Especially when Crowley was still naked and dripping like fresh honeycomb, little drops of it soaking into Aziraphale’s rug which he already knew he was never going to be able to look at the same ever again. Right under their feet was the summoning circle he’d once used to report to Heaven, and some old part of him wished he could shove this image into all their stupid faces, the sight of his glorious demon bought to heel for him and by him to be willingly at his angelic mercy, all while Aziraphale bestowed the most divine ecstasy on him he knew how. 

“You are so beautiful, Crowley.” He sighed, not letting go of his face but using a free hand to run across a slender shoulder and out onto his wing. The soft tickle of his alula and lesser coverts felt just like his own, maybe a little coarser but no less lovely for it. He could feel the slight prickle of damnation under his hands, that extra sense which let him know when something demonic was nearby. Most angels used it as an early warning system, a way to keep their guard up while on Earth in case they came across a demon to smite or one attempting to ambush them. But Aziraphale had always used it as a way to keep his eyes out for Crowley along his travels, the slippery thing could lurk with the best of them, but if he was close enough, Aziraphale could always tell it was him. Other demons felt like discordant notes in the background hum of Creation, something out of place which was wrong and hurting, but Crowley had always felt more like music played in minor key. Something always a little sad, but nonetheless still more than capable of becoming a symphony.

Reluctantly moving Crowley’s hands to fold demurely in his lap, Aziraphale slowly circled Crowley like a predator, making sure to always be touching his hair or petting his wings and telling him softly how lovely he was, how good he was being. 

“No m’not.” He mumbled, but it was a token protest and they both knew it. Crowley’s eyes were hazy, but it was easy to tell from the tiny smile on his face and the flush high on his cheeks that he was basking in all the praise like he would in the patches of sun he found in the bookshop. 

“Are you trying to argue with me, darling?” Aziraphale asked, letting his tone harden into something stern to cover up just how much of a precious little thing he thought Crowley was being.

“No, angel.” Crowley shivered, face going slack and his thighs squeezing together. It was pointless, even if Aziraphale couldn’t see with one of his many eyes that he was already wet to his knees, the smell of his incredibly aroused demon’s cunt was unmistakable to Aziraphale now that he’d finally had his face buried in it. 

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, gently tugging on the hair he’d been playing with. “Did you need something from me, Crowley?” 

Crowley squirmed as Aziraphale came back around to his front to look down at him, eyes glued unblinking on his cock. “I just, I want you to touch me.” 

“Is that all?”

He shook his head; well he tried to, the restraining hand in his hair just made his breathing even more erratic. “I need your words please, Crowley.”

“Want you to fuck me, angel,” he blurted out, as if he’d been holding in the words for a very long time and they’d finally gotten away from him. “I want your cock to fill me up until I cry, and all I can remember is your name, fuck, I want it _ssso much_.”

Aziraphale’s own breathing was getting ragged, and one of his hands was lazily stroking himself just out of Crowley’s reach. Crowley’s mouth was hanging open so his clever tongue could flick out again and again to keep dragging the taste of Aziraphale’s precome out of the air like he couldn’t get enough of it. 

“Ask me nicely, Crowley,” he rasped, shivering at the sight of Crowley digging his own nails into the tops of his slender thighs so he wouldn’t reach out and touch Aziraphale without permission. “If you ask me properly, I’ll give you anything you want.” 

Crowley’s eyes tore themselves away from watching Aziraphale touch himself, and he looked up to meet the eyes of his human face. A slow smile spread across his face at whatever he must have seen there, that slight hint of teasing wickedness which always promised that something infuriating or wonderful was about to happen, or possibly both at once. Aziraphale had just a moment to be apprehensive when Crowley took a deep breath, pressed the palms of his hands together, and started to _pray._

_“Hear me, O Angel, and have mercy, because I have sinned against Thee_

_To Thee, highest of all,  
_ _do I lift my eyes  
_ _in weeping:  
_ _Hear, O Angel, the prayers  
_ _of your servant._

_Hear me, O Angel, and have mercy, because I have sinned against Thee._

_I beseech Thee, Angel,  
_ _in Thy great majesty:  
_ _Hear my groans  
_ _with Thy holy ears:  
_ _calmly forgive  
_ _my crimes._

 _Hear me, O Angel, and have mercy, because I have sinned against Thee.  
_ _Amen._ ”

The smell of Crowley's palms being ever so slightly burnt by his profanity and the breathy _amen_ following the repurposed hymn was the last straw, and with a decidedly un-angelic snarl Aziraphale pounced, his sceptre released to float obediently at his side so he had all his hands free to ensnare Crowley. 

With the kind of reflexes no one who passed Aziraphale on the street would expect him to have, he grabbed Crowley by the hair and flipped him around to shove him face-first into the carpet with one set of hands, the other holding up his hips so his arse was in the air. Moving to kneel between his spread thighs, Aziraphale used his weight to his full advantage to hold him down and even looped his ankles to lock around Crowley’s so there was no chance he would be moving anytime soon, not unless Aziraphale allowed it.

Aziraphale rode out the instinctual surprised thrashing, managing to keep him down and right where he wanted him. His chest was pressed flush against Crowley's back, and all of those long, slender limbs were held immobile by his own just like how Aziraphale’s spread wings were viciously grinding all of Crowley’s neatly groomed black feathers into the worn Berber rug. 

Crowley was shaking, growling low in his chest in a decidedly bestial way no human being or wild animal ever could, and it was _thrilling_. But despite the promise of violence lurking behind his teeth, all he did was attempt to spread his wings and his legs wider in submission, even though Aziraphale had him pinned so thoroughly it was more of a symbolic effort than anything.[45]

The messy human instincts of his corporation (and his decidedly more extreme angelic ones) were in perfect agreement for once, and that was _protect_ and _mine_. Millennia of eldritch longing had combined with physical desperation which all screamed to the deepest, oldest parts of Aziraphale that if he didn't keep Crowley right where he was underneath him - close and hidden and _safe_ \- he might just lose him for good, which he was finally able to admit was an eventuality he wouldn't survive. 

All he could think of was Crowley drinking, ash-smeared and alone in a pub at the end of the world because he believed Aziraphale dead and gone, and Aziraphale quickly realised with much less shock than he might have expected that the only way he could imagine it going any differently if their positions had been reversed was the likelihood he'd die not so much as cosmic collateral damage while weeping into a bottle of whiskey, but while storming the gates of whosoever had stolen his heart away and taking as many of the fuckers down with him into blood and darkness as he could manage. For all he preferred the softer comforts of the world, Aziraphale had once been a soldier of Heaven; he had been a platoon leader in the First War, and during it he had more than earned his place as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, so he knew he could have managed quite a lot of carnage before they got organised enough to put him down. 

_"Mine."_ He couldn't help but breathe into the mess of red-gold hair at the base of Crowley's skull, smirking when it made the demon - _his demon,_ he reminded himself giddily - moan desperately and try even harder to push back against him. In response Aziraphale dug his teeth into the nape of Crowley’s neck with his lion head, not quite enough to break the skin but more than enough to be a warning. A warning apparently understood loud and clear, because Crowley went utterly still apart from his frantic breathing and the staccato beating of the heart he didn't actually need any more than Aziraphale did his but they both kept anyway.

"F'fuck's sake, angel." Crowley panted. "C'mon now, _please_."

The teeth in his neck dug in further and he yelped, a fresh gush of slick dripping out of him lewdly and onto the gold-scarred thigh of an increasingly wild Aziraphale. "Do you have _any idea_ the things I want to do to you right now Crowley?"

Those inhuman hips rolled back in a way which really shouldn’t be possible considering how well he was being angelically restrained, rubbing his arse against Aziraphale’s straining erection and making them both moan. 

“I’ve got sssome idea," he sighed, more of that blasted spine dipping lower until it wasn’t his arse pressed up against Aziraphale’s cock but the soaking wet folds of his vulva. “Oh, _fuck!”_

Crowley was always cool to the touch on the rare occasions when Aziraphale had been in the position to do any touching, a product of his cold-blooded nature and the empty space where She used to burn in him and all the other demons gone dark, but here he was all blazing slick heat and the promise of even more just below the surface. 

_This must be what hellfire feels like_ , he thought as his hips thrust forward without his permission to run the head of his cock all the way along Crowley’s dripping slit, and the only thing which stopped him from pulling back just far enough to be able to impale the demon in one go was how much he wanted to draw this out, to make Crowley feel every single second of pleasure he could possibly wring out of him. He’d already given himself over into Aziraphale’s hands, freely and of his own choice, and he would honour the gift of that trust and devotion by taking him apart one slow and careful piece at a time. And then afterwards, he would hold him safely in his wings and put him back together again, fill in all the gaps and scars and dark corners with his love until Crowley knew how incredible he was.

Aziraphale did hope he would beg for it by the end, though. He _really_ wanted to hear Crowley beg. 

Before his corporation got any more ideas, Aziraphale let go of his neck and pulled back just enough to look down at the line of black scales tracing along the centre of Crowley's lower back over his spine, his own large, pearly white flight wings still holding his black ones pinned to the ground while the weapons-grade wrist joints of his modesty wings kept up the pressure on his thin shoulders. With his chest pressed to the floor and his arse in the air (and not likely to go anywhere anytime soon), Aziraphale was free to do as he pleased.

There was a lot about Crowley which was quite pleasing, starting with the way he smiled when he thought no one was looking and running all the way through to how he filled out a pair of leather trousers. There wasn’t a lot about Crowley which wasn’t pleasing, come to think of it, if Aziraphale really was trying to make a list that one would be significantly shorter than the other, and not just because he was perhaps a tad biased regarding the character of his favourite demon. 

The aesthetics of his human corporation was actually one which Aziraphale had spent rather a lot of time considering over the years, telling himself for a lot of it that it was the lesser sin to find a human form surely designed to be alluring so attractive, than having to admit that he found the demonic being inhabiting it even more Tempting than that. After the bodyswap and knowing what it looked like when he inhabited it himself, he now had empirical evidence that for however nice this corporation was to look at, it was ultimately the way in which Crowley wore it which made it so. Even while he’d been wearing Aziraphale’s own angelic corporation, whenever Crowley hadn’t been pretending to be Aziraphale, there had been a certain way he held himself and smirked which was so unapologetically himself, and the experience had left Aziraphale in the rather perplexing position of being attracted to someone which currently looked like what he’d been seeing in mirrors and glass reflections and calm bodies of water for the last six millennia.[46]

He ran a finger lightly down Crowley’s too-flexible spine, tracing the smoothness of the scales and the sharp notches of vertebrae. There were far too many of them, but they all fit together somehow, the little peeks of Crowley’s true nature buried just skin deep enough to not be noticeable unless you knew what you were looking at, unless you were looking _for_ it. And Aziraphale was most certainly looking, finally at the point where he could admit that it wasn’t just the devastatingly attractive human-shaped corporation which he wanted so badly but the whole package. He wanted everything Crowley was, the beautiful and the profane and the strength and the vulnerability, the serpent and the Fallen angel and everything else which he built for himself on his own terms into something magnificent.

Right, enough talking. “I’m going to touch you now, Crowley.”

Crowley shuddered, feathers ruffling and swear words mumbled into the carpet.

“What was that, darling?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly, the pair of hands not stroking over his back and toying with the lovely place where skin and scales turned into feathers gripping his arse cheeks and spreading him wide open, staring hungrily from countless different angles at once so he could really see just how delectable he was laid out like this. His mouth watered, and part of him just wanted to dive face-first back into that gorgeous Effort and not come up for air for _weeks,_ maybe take some time to get intimately acquainted with the dusky pink skin of his tight little hole. But Aziraphale had plans, and he contented himself with one long, luxurious lick of his broad tongue from Crowley’s clit all the way up to his tailbone.

As predicted, Crowley was vocal in his reaction. “Hnnngk! Fuck, you’re gonna kill me, angel!”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he huffed, licking his lips clean to savour the taste of his lover. “A petit mort never killed anybody.”

Crowley actually _giggled_ a little at that, a slightly hysterical edge to it as he squirmed even more in Aziraphale’s grasp, not so much in any effort to get free but because he couldn’t contain any of the manic energy in his limbs. “Sh-shows what you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Crowley froze, seeming to have realised he’d just said something he hadn’t meant to, which made Aziraphale go from passingly curious to straight-up suspicious. “It doesssn’t matter, angel.”

“Hmm, is that so?” One of Aziraphale’s hands went from playing with a patch of scales on Crowley’s lower back to plunging two fingers straight into his cunt as deep as they could go. He was so wet with arousal that it was easy, and Crowley _howled_ , head thrown back and clenching so tightly around Aziraphale’s fingers that he was almost dizzy from how badly he wanted to be inside him, to bury himself inside his demon and never have to leave. “Are you sure you wouldn’t care to elaborate for me?”

“A-angel!” Crowley was struggling against the hands on his hips, trying so to hard to fuck himself on Aziraphale’s fingers that he was going to get bruises. “ _Fuck_ , angel, _please_ , s’fine, I need you--”

Aziraphale began to pump just those two fingers in and out of his lover firmly enough for him to really feel it, but not nearly fast enough for him to get anywhere. “As lovely as you sound right now, darling - and you do sound so very lovely, we _will_ be coming back to the topic of begging later - that is not what I asked you.”

“S’not a big deal, really.”

He curved his fingers until he found Crowley’s g-spot and rubbed circles around it. “Then why won’t you tell me?”

“Ah! You - oh shit, oh _ssshit_ right there - you, y’won’t like it.”

Aziraphale’s hands tightened on his hips in warning. “And why is that, Crowley?”

Crowley was almost incoherent, his hands scratching at the carpet with long, wickedly curved black claws, which he’d lost control over at some point along with his mouth. “B’cause, you don’t like it when I, when I, _aaah!_ ” 

“When you what, darling?” Clearly this method of interrogation was slow, but effective. 

“When I, y’know,” he groaned, back arching in pleasure. “When I d’ssscorporate.”

Aziraphale froze. “What?”

“Oh shit.” Crowley was babbling to himself, like he was so out of it he didn’t realise he was talking out loud. “Wasn’t supposed to say, _shit!_ ”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly, his fingers withdrawing from Crowley and his voice resonating with the echo of holy wrath. “Have you been discorporated during sex?”

“No,” he said immediately, and Aziraphale was just talking himself down from the edge of desperately needing to go find whoever was responsible for such a thing ever happening and smiting them into a pillar of salt, when Crowley mumbled under his breath, “Not exactly.”

Aziraphale wondered if this was what the beginning of a heart attack felt like. “It’s a yes or no question, Crowley.”

“Didn’t ever discorporate during sex. Just…” He trailed off, shoulders hunching over even more, and no doubt he would have been hiding in his wings if Aziraphale wasn’t holding them down. “Just alone. Just when it was me.”

The wording made something even worse occurred to him. “Crowley, how many times did this happen?”

“Um, not too many?” 

_“Any amount of times discorporating while masturbating is too many!”_ Why in Heaven’s name was that something he actually needed to spell out?

“But I’m fine!” he protested, looking back over his shoulder at whatever eyes were within range. “Look, see? All of me is present n’accounted for.”

Aziraphale shook his heads. “No, you’re not fine, are you darling; not even a little. Crowley, how many times?”

He hissed, turning back around to avoid Aziraphale’s gaze. “Not often, Downstairs gets pissy if you discorporate too often, and breaking in a new corporation is a pain.”

“Crowley.” The beat of his human heart, which had stopped as soon as Crowley had said the word discorporate, was pounding again in his chest. “How. Many. Times.”

Everything was silent for a moment. “A few dozen I guess. Would have to look up the paperwork to know exactly.”

If Aziraphale had been human he would have fainted. “What?”

“It could have been a lot more, I’spose.” Crowley shrugged, apparently of the opinion that if he was in for a penny he was in for a pound. “But I found out I’d lose all the scars when I was reincorporated, so I didn’t do it much from around the 14th century onwards.”

“What scars? And what happened around the 14th century?”

“The same thing, actually.” He sighed. “Lightning.”

_“Lightning?”_

“It was a complete accident the first time!”

_“The first time?”_

“For fuck’sssake!” Crowley snarled at himself, burying his head in the carpet and refusing to look back at Aziraphale. “Why aren’t I shutting up?”

Aziraphale yanked Crowley up by the scruff of the neck and, mindful of his wings, spun him around to push him flat on his back on the floor. He was flushed red, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears just starting to spill over across the scales dusting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. The idea that this beautiful creature had been hurting so badly for so long with no one to help him, that even Aziraphale had never seen how deeply the scars on his heart went down, had never even thought to _look…_ It felt like failure. Like looking around the First Battlefield at the broken bodies of all the dead, angels and Fallen alike fallen to the ground in hideous tableus of ichor and broken feathers and dull, unseeing eyes - some even felled by his own sword - and knowing deep in his weeping angelic heart that it was not Good, no matter what the Archangels had said.

Crowley was a battlefield, he understood that now.[47] Maybe it was the kind which had been abandoned to solitude until nature rose up to reclaim it and cover the savagery of what had befallen him, but if you brushed aside the wildflowers and dug through the topsoil you could see all the shattered ruins left behind, the rusted weapons and the bones of the dead beyond counting. There were things he had experienced which Aziraphale would never be able to understand, but that didn’t matter, not when he could shelter him from the storms which battered away at him and make sure Crowley never went another day not knowing that he was loved, for no more and no less than being everything he was.

Because despite everything, despite the constant fear of Falling which had haunted Aziraphale just like the nightmares which long ago made him decide he hated sleeping, on the other side of Armaggeddon he knew down to that same angelic heart which had cried over the demons he’d killed in the War, and ended up loving one of the survivors so much that Aziraphale had made him a part of himself, that he wasn’t going to Fall. Not for loving Crowley, not for betraying Heaven, and not for anything else as long as he kept his faith in Her. And how could he not, even though he didn’t always agree with Her methods and the suffering they could cause, when at the end of the day all those awful things had led him here, to this exact moment, to every moment where he existed in a world where he could love Crowley the way he had deserved to be loved for so very long. That Crowley loved him back was a gift he would thank Her for every day of the rest of his long life, but even if he hadn’t, he would have continued to love him forever anyway and be there in whichever way Crowley needed him, and he still would have thanked Her for that as well.

“Because you’re an idiot but not a liar,” he said, the furious rage and fear burnt out and leaving behind nothing but terrifying gentleness. “Not to me, not about the things that really matter. And this matters, doesn’t it, dearest?”

Crowley bit his lip, then nodded. “Yeah. It matters.”

“I love you, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, leaning down to kiss him softly. “It’s very important to me that you know that, and that you know how much I treasure you, because it’s so much that it scared me for the longest time. I have you now and I will _never_ let you go again, do you understand me? You’ve spent so long protecting me, and now it’s my turn to protect you. There is nothing in Heaven or Earth or Hell which will ever hurt you again without going through me first, not even you. Do you understand me, Crowley?”

He sniffled a little. “Yeah, I understand, angel.”

Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together, letting his lion head nuzzle into Crowley’s neck with a throaty growl while his eagle head preened some of his hair. “And if you do need to be hurt Crowley, if that’s honestly something you need, then you come to me. I said I would give you everything you could possibly want and I meant it, my love, and if that means sometimes being the sadistic bastard I know you find so thrilling, then I assure you that will _not_ be a hardship for me. Is this acceptable?”

Crowley’s eyes were wide, disbelieving but tinged with hope, and when Aziraphale smirked and his lion head sank all his sharp teeth so deep into the skin where his neck met his shoulder that they hit bone, those wide eyes rolled back in his head and he _moaned_ so wantonly Aziraphale was immediately half-hard again. “Oh, _fuck!”_

He kissed all the noises Crowley made out of his mouth, tangling his hands in his hair and his wings and everywhere else he could reach. Crowley’s long arms and legs snaked all around him so tightly that he couldn’t have moved away even if he’d wanted to, but where else in all of Creation would he ever want to be but exactly here? Their flight wings were pressed together wingtip to wingtip so he could pin Crowley’s to the floor, and his modesty wings - meant to hide his body while in the presence of the Throne - were once again mantling around Crowley to hide him from the world. 

They moved together, the passion reigniting between them as if it had never stopped, and if anything it was greater since Crowley wasn’t holding anything back now that he knew Aziraphale understood him, knew what he needed, and was not only happy but damn near elated to give it to him. His lion head was lapping at the very dark red blood his teeth had drawn from one side of Crowley's neck with his big, rough tongue while his human mouth was busy sucking bruises into the other side, and Aziraphale had to take a moment to be very smug about his ability to multitask.

Unable to resist the temptation to tease him, Aziraphale moved his lion head from his neck to lick the corner of his panting mouth, and to his surprise Crowley gasp in shocked delight. “ _Heaven_ angel, just look at you.” 

Aziraphale moaned into the hollow of his lover's throat, the sight and feeling of Crowley stroking through his mane with clear fascination a completely novel experience, before pulling his now purring lion head down to rub their cheeks together, the static shock of fur and skin and scales sliding against each other positively decadent. Crowley pressed a lingering kiss to his muzzle and nipped mischievously at his sensitive whiskers, and Aziraphale snarled in return, all those vicious teeth still stained with demon blood bared in playful warning. 

He hadn't been expecting this to make Crowley immediately go limp, eyes rolling back a little in his head and spreading his thighs even wider with a whimper, but the sudden freedom from his long, vice-like legs made it so much easier for Aziraphale to grind his cock up against him, and then he couldn't wait any longer. "Crowley, I want to be inside you."

" _Fuck me,_ " he begged, voice raw and wrecked and like he was on the verge of tears. "Please angel I need it, I need you, c'mon now please!"

And so, with Crowley's lovely begging echoing in his ears, Aziraphale reached down to take himself in hand and guide his cock to finally, _finally_ press inside his beloved. 

It was so hot and wet and _tight_. They both cried out, overcome by not only the physical sensations but the sheer incredulity that they were finally here, finally together and learning how well they fit together even like this. 

Words fell away, everything else except them fell away. When Crowley's legs wrapped around Aziraphale's hips so he could dig his heels into the small of his back to urge him on, he pulled out almost all the way just so he could slam back into Crowley hard enough to make him _scream_ out his approval, then he did it all over again. And again. Even while Crowley was whimpering pathetically on every rough thrust his hips had a mind of his own and kept pace with Aziraphale's, pushing back to meet him and making them both spiral even further into pleasure.

It didn't take long for them to reach the precipice after all that build up, the tension of not only this unforgettable evening, but so many years. Afterwards they collapsed together as they floated back down to earth, their love for one another crashing over Aziraphale, drowning him in the sheer giddy intensity of post-orgasmic _bliss_. And for a while they simply lay there and caught their literal and metaphorical breath, limbs and wings tangled together, and they both saw that it was Good.

* * *

Footnotes

38An example of all the kingdoms the Principality Aziraphale has claimed over the years include Sumer, the Olmec, the Delian League, Camelot, the Tang Dynasty (and oh, he was still annoyed at Crowley for Tempting Wu Zetian into interrupting it in the middle by declaring the formation of the Wu Zhou Dynasty, it had been very inconsiderate of him and had taken years to get things back on track), the British Empire, and every single human being who had ever loved someone that other people said they shouldn’t.[return to text]

39Permanence looks very different from the perspective of an immortal, when you know that nothing on Earth really last forever (except for you) the decision to put down roots and foundations in the physical world is more of an indulgence than anything else, but no less meaningful because of it. [return to text]

40This is not to say that all the various anecdotes of humans being driven to fits of divine ecstasy, speaking in tongues or seeing visions were a result of Aziraphale’s sporadic control over himself while in the throes of pleasure, but as they do say, there is no smoke without fire.[return to text]

41Aziraphale hadn’t began to experiment with the more carnal aspects of love until after the Crucifixion, but over the years since nearly every time it had happened he’d ended up founding a new movement in Gnosticism of all things. Their belief in the importance of the intangible and spiritual was _especially_ puzzling considering his own deep appreciation for the physical pleasures of Creation, and ever since Crowley had found out he’d never let him live it down.[return to text]

42The discovery that angels can get high on sacred incense had been made following the birth of John the Baptist. Aziraphale had been summoned by a frantic Michael and asked to use the wealth of his earthly knowledge to uncover why Gabriel had been acting erratically ever since his return from checking in on things with Zechariah and Elizabeth, and he’d had to explain to his bosses that the Archangel Gabriel was high as a fucking kite and had the munchies. They’d ended up feeding him large quantities of dates, ashishim and beer until he passed out and slept it off, and it (and the resulting flatulence he’d also had to ask Aziraphale how to miracle away) had apparently been such a traumatic experience that he’d never eaten anything ever again. [return to text]

43Well, his sceptre was technically very much a part of his ethereal self, so maybe it would be prudent to clarify that he meant the part of himself which had been purposefully designed for the activity.[return to text]

44By now, Aziraphale was beginning to realize that Crowley said 'angel' the way most people said 'Master’. A bit more of his grace threatened to spill over at the very thought, as if he wasn't already positively leaking with desire.[return to text]

45Aziraphale had gained a rather more personal understanding of the Seven Cardinal Sins over the years than was altogether proper for an angel, but that combination of Pride and Lust had been a new one, even for him.[return to text]

46Then again, when you were an ethereal/occult being who had the celestial equivalent of admin privileges over the Universe, symbolism was _everything_.[return to text]

47And Aziraphale knew battlefields very well. He might not like them but he never, ever ran from them, not as long as there was a single person left standing who might need him.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's incredible art by the amazing Ventela1, because wow <3


	6. Say my name like a scripture

Somewhere between Aziraphale making Crowley nearly orgasm his corporation’s brains out and him coming back to some vague semblance of awareness, the literal and figurative angel had miracled the couch over from the back room and laid them both down on it, with Crowley curled up on top of him like a demonic limpet and the tartan afghan which they’d been snuggling under while watching TV together approximately a million years ago covering them both. 

There was the sound of a page being gently turned somewhere over his head which meant that Aziraphale was reading while Crowley took a post-coital nap on him, which when you added in how he was still incredibly naked while Aziraphale was back in his trousers and shirtsleeves (which was somehow more scandalous than having just been naked as well), the delicious collection of aches making themselves known and (holy fucking Heaven) the fact that Aziraphale said that he _loved_ him, this exact moment was pretty much everything Crowley had ever truly wanted and he had no idea how to deal with it.

That realization made Crowley’s breath catch for a moment, and Aziraphale stilled beneath him as he realized Crowley was awake again. A bookmark was carefully placed in the novel Aziraphale had been reading to mark his place before he deliberately put it aside. Something warm settled in Crowley’s chest at the way Aziraphale so easily discarded one of his favorite hobbies simply to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair and tilt his head up for a gentle kiss.

Crowley melted against Aziraphale even more, something he hadn’t thought possible until that moment, and though Crowley could easily have gone another round or seven right then and there, Aziraphale eventually drew back with another peck to Crowley’s lips.

“Tea?” 

Crowley made a vague noise of assent, which he immediately regretted when Aziraphale made to get up. A minor scuffle ensued while they bickered over the logistics of Aziraphale making tea without detaching Crowley from him, but eventually Aziraphale found his way to the kitchen with Crowley’s arms tight around his neck and his legs locked around his waist.[48]

Having Crowley wrapped around him like the serpent he was made it trickier for Aziraphale to manage the steps necessary to make them both a proper cup of tea, but other than a bit of light-hearted grumbling he didn’t complain much, and Crowley suspected he was enjoying the continued physical closeness just as much as he was. Finally, tea in hand, Aziraphale retreated to the sofa with the fruits of his labour, waiting until Crowley had partially unwound himself to hand his cup over. Naturally it was the perfect temperature already, still just hot enough to bite a little and sweet enough to be almost sickening, with a healthy splash of milk. Just the way Crowley liked it.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, sipping their respective cups of tea, until Crowley became aware that Aziraphale was fidgeting just slightly in place, like he was wanting to say something but not sure how to word it. Crowley rolled his eyes, though his lips curled up fondly anyway.

“Out with it, angel.”

“I just-- well, I hope that it wasn’t _too much_ , my-- ah, my _appearance_ ,” Aziraphale managed, gaze shifting from his cup of tea to Crowley and then back again. “It’s a bit embarrassing, really, not being able to contain myself like that, and--”

“Angel, _shut it_.” Aziraphale obligingly clamped his mouth shut, though he looked a bit wounded, so Crowley quickly forged on. “That was the single most _incredible_ thing I’ve ever experienced in my life, and you are absolutely stunning, so beautiful I almost couldn’t even handle _looking_ at you.” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks went a bit pink at the compliment but he smiled all the same, and Crowley was certain he didn’t imagine the way his shoulders relaxed in relief at Crowley’s reassurance. Crowley gave into the temptation to lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, then his lips when Aziraphale obligingly turned his head towards him, just because he could now, and because he wanted to. Aziraphale sighed when Crowley pulled back (only a bit, he made sure he stayed pressed up against Aziraphale’s side) to take another sip of his tea, and Crowley was sure he was smiling at least as dopily as Aziraphale was, however much he tried to suppress it.

They were both silent, then, for another half a minute at most, finishing up their tea in the sort of companionable silence which had always characterized their time together but had a new, added layer of fondness and warmth to it now which Crowley hadn’t realized it had been missing before. Aziraphale was the one who finally broke the silence, still a bit hesitant despite Crowley’s previous reassurance.

“Would you… like to see more of it? _All_ of it, that is?” 

_Fuck_ , Crowley would like that more than _anything_ , but he was pretty sure it would quite literally blind his poor human-esque corporation and said as much, letting the reluctance seep into every syllable.

A little smile, coy and a tiny bit _mischievous_ , the kind of smile that had made Crowley fall in love with the angel in the first place, crept onto Aziraphale’s face at that.

“Well… Not exactly.”

“Wh-- How d’you mean? Demons aren’t exactly meant to be able to lay eyes on the Divine, ‘spart of the punishment of being one of the Fallen.” The reality behind the statement still stung, and Crowley’s expression contorted with bitterness at the reminder of the _pain_ of his Fall, the agony of having God’s Divine Love seared from every atom of his being without even the kindness of cauterizing the gaping wounds left behind afterwards.

Aziraphale’s soft touch on his cheek managed to drag him back from those dark memories, before he could get too caught up in the remembered (and still present, if worn and faded) agony. “My dear, not only are we made of the same starstuff as the humans so like to say, we have been in regular contact for so very long and even shared our corporations, to say nothing of the incredibly intimate contact we have shared tonight. Even if it might be too much for other angels and demons, I have every confidence that _we_ in particular would manage just fine.” He paused, lip quirking again. “I admit it may sting just a little, but I have it on good authority you enjoy that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Crowley replied, a bit stupidly, blinking a few times. 

Waiting patiently for Crowley’s brain to catch up, Aziraphale just hummed in agreement.

“Well, then of _course_ I’d love to see you, angel!” Crowley gushed, the flood of eager longing escaping him before he could dam it up properly and he launched himself back into Aziraphale’s waiting arms. “ _Go-- Satan-- Someone_ , do I want to see you, _all of you_.”[49]

"I want to see you too, Crowley," he said gently into the secret places in the hollow of his throat. "Absolutely everything. Please, best beloved, won't you give me all of you?"

"W-what?" He mumbled, the old urge to give Aziraphale absolutely everything he could ever want at war with hoping to Someone that he wasn't inferring what he thought he was implying.

His trepidation (and indeed his straight-up terror) must have been evident on his face, because Aziraphale’s expression softened, went a little bit sad. "Don't you want for me to know you in every way, just as you'll know me?"

"No," he said flatly, and he would have been crying if he hadn’t had so many years of experience tamping down on his emotions. "Angel, I have _never_ wanted you to see me like that." 

Aziraphale looked confused. "Why ever not my dear?"

"Because it's all wrong, isn't it?" He said bitterly, turning and refusing to meet the angel's gaze and see the judgement (or worse, the naked pity). Restlessness made him jump to his feet abruptly, nervous energy refusing to let him stay still while they talked about _this_ , of all things. He felt naked all of a sudden, and not just because he wasn’t wearing any clothes. The vulnerability threatened to choke him, but he spat his next words out all the same.

"Behold what happens when an angel disobeys and is cast into the fires of perdition for their transgressions." He spread his arms as if baring it all, from the eyes that would forever mark him a demon, something cursed personally by the Almighty, to the snake scales in all his soft places which quite never went away unless he really concentrated. "This form and even my snake aspect, both of them are the smoking wreckage of what I used to be, Aziraphale, and even then they're still a damn sight better option than _that_."

All of the excess eyes had faded away back into the ether with the rest of his angel, but the two he still had left narrowed. "What exactly are you scared of, Crowley?"

"Told you before, 'm not scared of anything." But despite his protests he couldn’t resist finally giving into the temptation to miracle some semblance of clothing onto his corporation, an attempt to hide the evidence of his shame mere moments after he’d so blatantly pointed them out.

"Well I am," Aziraphale said calmly, as if they were discussing where to go for afternoon tea and not the relative state of Crowley’s metaphysical being. "I've been scared rather a lot actually, and after a very long time of being scared, do you know what I learned?"

"No."

"After facing all of my greatest fears head-on in a very short amount of time, I learned that they weren't actually a whole host of little fears at all, but one big fear. Do you know what that fear is, my darling?"

Crowley shook his head, not able to get his throat to make words.

"That somehow either through my own actions or inactions, or the actions or inactions of another, I wouldn't have you in my life anymore." Aziraphale’s voice quavered, and the sight of those jewelbright eyes glistening with tears ruined ever so slightly with gold, was almost enough to make tears finally prick Crowley's eyes in sympathy. "That's when I realised that all I wanted was to spend forever with you, because a lifetime - even all the lifetimes we've already shared - could never _ever_ be enough."

Crowley’s serpent tongue was tied in knots somehow, there was no other explanation for why he couldn’t so much as manage a single word in the face of Aziraphale’s straightforward confession. He felt all the years of trauma and hopelessness and longing and regret just as knotted as his tongue was, filling up his chest and making his stupid mortal rib cage strain to hold everything he was feeling inside.

“You’ve seen the eyes in my heart Crowley, you know what they mean. The last one turned the day you saved me and my books from that bombed out church, and unlike the others, this time I could _feel_ it, how that beautiful golden yellow dripped from you into me in the split second when you met my gaze over the rim of your glasses. It felt like a key locking into place, like coming home to my bookshop and sitting by the fire after it had been snowing.” He ran his hands through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley realized they were shaking, just a little, betraying the truth of Aziraphale's confession about his fears. “That’s when I couldn’t deny anymore that I loved you more than anything else I’d ever loved in my entire existence.”

Crowley was almost ascending from the sheer elation of Aziraphale pouring his heart out before him and revealing that it belonged to Crowley, all the way down, but then the thought of soaring through the clouds makes cold dread settle harshly into the pit of his stomach. 

“Angel, take it back,” he begged, even though saying it felt like sulphur burning its way into his wings, like the big dark empty of Nothing before there was Anything, which could still somehow look at you. “Take it back _right now.”_

“Why on Earth would I do something like that?”

Flames were licking around his feet, and it was the moment before the Fall all over again. Maybe it wasn't millennia ago; maybe it was yesterday. Maybe it had never actually stopped. "Because it's not allowed, angel. You can't love anything more than Her, not without consequences." He sounded almost hysterical and he knew it, but he needed Aziraphale to _understand_ what he was risking right now.

Aziraphale interrupted by pressing Crowley's face into the softness of his belly, doing him the kindness of letting him hide from the world. “I won’t Fall for Love, Crowley, not for loving you as much as I do or for not loving Her enough.” He stroked his hair, terribly gentle. “Be honest, if it specifically took not loving Her enough to Fall, then you’d still be up there among the clouds. You never stopped loving Her, even though She hurt you, and you hate yourself for it.”

It was a gut punch, and make no mistake. Crowley jerked back and would have fallen off the couch altogether if it hadn’t been for Aziraphale’s stabilising arms, the instinct to flee almost overriding everything else because it was just too much, his angel’s voice saying out loud the only secret of Crowley's which was even more secret than his feelings for Aziraphale himself. It had been so for longer than the life of the Earth, and he still didn’t know if it was a miracle or a joke that a demon could still love the God who turned Her back on him as violently as She had just as much as he hated Her. Odds were good it was a little of both.

He was crying now, not loudly or obviously, just enough that his eyes were wide and wet and two tiny tracks of tears were leaking down his face. He hid in his hair, arms curling tighter around himself as he waited for laughter or judgement which he knew won’t come but feared beyond the telling of it anyway. If anyone on the Earth or beyond could understand, of course it would be Aziraphale, but there was no helping the instinctual shame which curled through him like poisoned smoke.

“I’m sorry.” Crowley whispered, not knowing what else to say. For all his clever words and his clever tongue he’d never known how to talk about this, not even a little.

“Never apologise for feeling love, not for anything. Love is the most powerful thing in Creation, and I honestly don’t believe there is anything more incredible than the way you have been able to hold onto your ability to do so all this time. You are extraordinary Crowley, and you constantly amaze me so, you clever, beautiful boy.”

The praise felt scalding, like it was boiling honey pouring down his throat and lighting him up from within with syrupy, searing heat. How like Aziraphale, to wield words as weapons and to be so sweet with them you feel like you’d die for their lack. 

“Angel,” he panted, cheeks flushing and somehow gaining the courage to raise his head from where it had been hidden in Aziraphale’s shirt and gaze up in wonder and adoration at the only being who could ever make him feel like he was worthy of the kindness he gave to him. "But what if…" He trailed off, one last fear sinking its claws in and making his throat close off again for a moment.

"But what, dearest?"

"What if you can't love me after?" he whispered, curling up helplessly in Aziraphale's lap and hiding his face in his shirt again. "What happens when the weight of my sins is too much for you?"

"I'm an angel, Crowley." he said softly, no doubt not wanting to frighten the demon but wanting to be very clear. "It is not only my duty, but my _privilege_ , to bear witness to the lightest and darkest in all of us, and find love and forgiveness for all who want it."

“I’m not some misbehaving human who needs a holy slap on the wrist so they can get back to business as usual,” he snapped. “I’m a demon, I’m _unforgivable_. Remember?”

Far from being angry or frustrated, Aziraphale resumed petting his hair, and it was infuriating how much it was actually helping him to calm down somewhat. "Do you want my forgiveness, Crowley? You have my love already, unconditionally, and while I don't think you've done anything which truly needs forgiving, you may have it if you wish. If that's what you need to be reassured of my devotion to you."

As much as part of him clawed desperately toward the idea of being forgiven for his sins, there was an equally loud part of him which honestly didn’t think he’d done anything wrong either, and it was fighting back against the part which was hysterically weeping on the inside. Apparently it was the victor because eventually he looked away, jaw clenched and unsure how to tell Aziraphale he’d sooner take the express route dirtside all over again despite the pain and heartbreak than pretend at contrition he didn’t feel. There were things he’d done as a demon which he still felt remorse over, things which would haunt him forever, but as for that first sin which had lead him straight down into Hell? Crowley would sooner face God and walk backwards into Hell his own damned self than beg for forgiveness for any of it.

His stubbornness must have been clear on his face, because Aziraphale just smiled knowingly. "Then, maybe not forgiveness exactly. Maybe what you need is absolution."

“Absolution,” he said flatly. “Isn’t that the same thing as forgiveness?”

“It can mean that, certainly, but it can mean other things as well. Like acquittal, exoneration, vindication...” Aziraphale smirked, and bless it if that kind of naughty expression on his face was _never_ going to get old. “It can even mean release.”

Crowley choked on his own spit, and as embarrassing as it was he really should have known better than to expect anything else of himself while Aziraphale was talking like _that_.

"You've already been on your knees for me, love," Aziraphale said with a small smile. "So ask and ye shall receive."

Crowley was struck by an incomprehensibly intertwined mix of fear, wonder, elation, and undeniable lust, all of it suffused with an unshakable, unending love for the ethereal being before him. 

_"Holy angel, to whose care this poor soul and wretched body of mine have been given, do not cast me off because I am a sinner, do not hold aloof from me because I am not clean. Do not yield your place to the Spirit of Evil; guide me by your influence on my mortal body.”_ The prayer felt like acid in his mouth, but he took a deep, shaking breath, and pried one of his hands out of Aziraphale’s shirt and held it out between them. _“Take my limp hand and bring me to the path that leads to salvation."_

The Light of Heaven was blazing in all of Aziraphale’s eyes when he took Crowley by his outstretched hand and pulled him both into the ether.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t supposed to be here. 

The ether burned, but with the bite of an icy winter rather than the scorching agony of setting foot on consecrated ground. It was all in the name really; the ether was the domain of the ethereal, and for all he liked to rib Aziraphale with the reminder that they weren’t all that different when you got down to it, there were still some differences and they made _all_ the difference. It was like trying to force two opposing forces together when they really would have preferred to remain unforced, the background vibration of this plane of reality and Crowley’s own occult energy might be two sides of the same coin, but much like Heaven and Hell themselves they were still two sides who were in absolute negation of the existence of the other. 

The sudden shock of it was enough to almost overwhelm Crowley entirely, all his processing power immediately going towards reminding all of the various parts of himself that _he_ was in charge here, and that there would be no funny business of any kind today at all. Once he was certain he wasn’t going to go through some kind of unpleasant inversion of his base state or any of the other (decidedly more explosive) options, he looked all around himself at once with his various eyes, hoping to make sure Aziraphale was fine and have a quick checkover of himself as he went to make sure everything was more or less present and accounted for. But when he got a good look at him - at _both_ of them - he froze, unable to look away. 

It had been a very, very long time since Crowley had visited any plane which could support a fully manifested celestial being, regardless of which team they played for. The first thought which eventually penetrated his mind was how it seemed impossible that on most days creatures like these could fit inside a nominally human body; surely it was like trying to fit not just a storm but an entire atmosphere's worth of bad weather into a teacup, and the only reason it even worked was because the storm was cooperating with you and felt quite sentimental about the teacup in question.

Aziraphale was even more awe-inspiring than Crowley could have ever expected. His true form was the same electric hypergiant blue as his human corporation’s eyes, all wings and the blazing starfire of Creation which lit him up from within like he contained a Heaven all of his own. His four aspects weren’t just heads here, the forms overlapping in fractal arcs of grasping limbs and all-Seeing eyes and possibility while together they still all simultaneously occupied the quantum superposition of _Aziraphale_.

If Aziraphale was a stable hypergiant miraculously sustaining the majesty of his blinding luminescence so his mass wouldn’t be scattered by the stellar winds, then Crowley was an entire galaxy spread out nano-thin and endless, an empire on which the sun never set. He was made of that same fire of Creation burnt down to embers but still not succumbing to the Void pouring in on all sides, a heart-wrenchingly beautiful disaster in which the violins were still playing all the way down. 

He was also too big to rightly be able to sustain himself without going supernova in a blaze of glory (or going in the other direction and becoming a black hole), but unlike Aziraphale he lacked the connection to the Light of the Heaven to keep equilibrium for him. But despite being in a permanent state of gravitational collapse, Crowley was somehow still balanced perfectly on the knife-edge between runaway nuclear fusion and singularity through sheer force of will, and the kind of stubborn resiliency which only came from surviving unspeakable trauma. If he unfurled them fully, the event horizon of his wings would be mantled protectively from Soho all the way to Mars in at least half a dozen different dimensions, and safely cradled in the epicentre of his shifting starfield coils was Aziraphale.

Fuck, but his angel was so bright it scalded him to the core, and when he smiled with all of his mouths Crowley was pierced like Saint Teresa, deep and ecstatic and true. It was too much for a demon to feel and still survive the experience relatively intact, and while he would endure it for Aziraphale without complaint even if it killed him for good this time, in this strange place which sang with holiness like something from a dream long gone but never quite forgotten, it occurred to him that there was another option for conveying the depth and nature of his feelings which felt even more appropriate than rapturous martyrdom.

Crowley moved with purpose to pull away from Aziraphale, the endless coils of him undulating as he rearranged himself into a very specific pattern of interlocking circles which burned him even as he did it. His flight wings arched up proudly before falling open and back, fully exposing the soft undersides in an elegant, trembling sine wave of inverted light and fury, while his lower wings curled around his tail modestly. Last of all he bowed his head low in reverence as his crown wings drop from where they had been framing his broken halo to hide his face from Aziraphale.

Now, as much as he had come to embody the very best of what a Principality should be, as has been previously discussed Aziraphale was still at heart the Cherub he had been created as. This meant that before Eden, before the First War in Heaven and even before Time itself began, he was one of the many proud Cherubim charged with guarding the Throne of God. 

So he knew what a Seraph sitting in attendance to the Lord Almighty in full ceremonial prostration looked like, and it was exactly what Crowley was doing right now. Only this time it wasn’t for Her, it was all for him. 

_Oh_ Crowley, Aziraphale sighed, his multilayered voice thrumming with shocked, incredulous _want_ on every possible wavelength. _Oh my dear, just look at you, what a precious, stunning creature you are._

_Holy, holy, holy is my lover Aziraphale, who was, and is, and is to come._ The slightly edited words of the oldest prayer seared him inside and out as he sang his worship[50], and blood as black as the Void-That-Was hemorrhaged from his mouths as his true form cried out in protest of his transgression into these hallowed grounds so long forbidden to him. Most would probably have taken the pain as the warning it was no doubt intended to be, but Crowley had never been able to turn his back on something forbidden, especially not if it hurt. _Sanctus Aziraphale, Sanctus Fortis, Sanctus Immortalis, miserere nobis._

With his face covered and his remaining eyes averted he couldn't exactly see Aziraphale's reaction to his most exultant and heartfelt of blasphemies. But he could still sense it in the same way animals could sense the approach of an earthquake, because if they weren't already in a plane higher and a little to the left of the earthly one, the tectonic shifts in spacetime happening around them would have been remaking the entire fucking planet.

 _What did I ever do to deserve you?_ Aziraphale asked softly, the wonder and awe in his voice making something jagged inside him want to shine. 

_You were yourself,_ he said, feeling self-conscious and vulnerable and overwhelmed by the knowledge that Aziraphale could _see him_. All of him, all the scars and the bits that were broken and put back wrong, and still sounded like that. Like he was something, like he was _someone_. Like he was enough, just as he was and not for whatever he had once been. _I’ve never known anyone like you, angel, not on Earth or in Hell or even in Heaven. There isn’t anything you could have done to make me not love you, it’s only ever been you._

_Oh, dearest. Surely you know it’s the same for me? You are unmatched, a miracle, and the most beautiful thing I have ever known._

One of Aziraphale's hands smoothed over a dead constellation of blinded eyes and he whined deep in his throats at the bliss of it, the glimpse of something divine burning through him with his touch. _Even like this? Even now?_

 _Especially now my love,_ Aziraphale said gently, more of his hands coming to stroke his wings, the uneven blackened horns which had once been his halo, the star-scarred scales of his flanks. _You are a vision._

Crowley twitched, his remaining eyes still closed or hidden and unsure how to deal with the feelings flooding through him. _More like a particularly bad acid trip. I know what I am now, angel, and I’m a cautionary tale at best._

Aziraphale’s hands tightened, the sawtooth waves of his displeasure making Crowley want to curl even tighter into himself but the deferential position he’d chosen making it all but impossible. There was a reason this was the way the Seraphim held their position before the Throne; there was no way to hide any part of what they were before Her knowing eyes and this made sure they remembered it. 

_While I understand that you have literally been to Hell and back and it has made its mark on you, I will not allow you to talk like that about yourself._ Aziraphale’s hands pushed open his crown wings without warning and Crowley was left suddenly looking up into the righteously pissy faces of his beloved. He was reminded of his love for Aziraphale when he once again managed to do something as ridiculous as being visibly in a snit despite being in full eldritch-Cherub mode.

Not remotely in the mood to continue in this conversational direction when it was impossible for him to hide behind sunglasses or even a blessed body, he managed the closest approximation to a flirty wink he could while like this, a fluttering wave of the steadily blinking pulsars studded along his endless spine. _Maybe you should punish me then, angel. Make sure I remember to treat the things that belong to you properly._

In the wake of that suggestion, Aziraphale’s already not inconsiderable glow flared wildly, a distinctly rosy tinge to the blue light, the golden crown hovering above his even more golden halo spinning faster as if it was powering up a reactor. Crowley had never seen a Cherub furiously and desperately aroused before[51], but he could tell from the flood of want pouring out of his angel that if they’d still been wearing their corporations he would have been about two seconds away from the shag of his life, and as today had been quite the day for firsts he was going to roll with it. 

One of Aziraphale's sharp bronze hooves rested lightly on the vulnerable underbelly of one of his thickly armoured coils as if testing the waters, and when it finally registered what he was asking, Crowley was in danger of going supernova after all if Aziraphale didn't step on him _right the fuck now._

 _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ please _!_ he begged, the anxious energy sweeping through him making his body twist and his wings flutter in frantic anticipation. 

While it wasn’t exactly possible for him to be panting while mostly non-corporeal, the psychosomatic consequences of occupying a human corporation long-term meant that Crowley's mouths were all hanging open like he was a bitch in heat, and he suspected he might even be drooling thick lines of venom and ash. He didn't care, though. All he could think about was the holy light singing love straight into his being with all the subtlety of the Lance of Longinus at Golgotha. And then he wasn't thinking much of anything because that _blessed fucking sceptre_ was pulled sideways across his throat so harshly he couldn't even move his head, leonine jaws and more burning holy hands than he could count restraining his madly writhing form so it was unable to do more than just keep writhing like it was his godamnned job.[52] Aziraphale's hooves were grinding mercilessly into his scales like all the pretentious church art where Saint Michael defeats the Dragon, and Crowley was abruptly sure he'd never look at that particular type of religious iconography without fighting the urge to blush ever again. 

It didn't matter how much bigger he technically was than the already gigantic Cherub-Principality, the Seraphim were made for burning and singing and being the spark which ignited all [53], so in every one of his forms, Crowley was slender and delicate despite his adaptive resilience, more suited to agility and dexterity than raw power. As a guardian and a soldier, Aziraphale was just so solid and so fucking _strong_ that Crowley couldn't have broken free from his loving grasp even if he wanted to.[54]

 _Fuckfuck_ fuck! Crowley howled, not remotely ashamed of how pathetic he was being. If anything it made it better, knowing he was a disaster and still, Aziraphale wouldn’t let go. _Yes angel, please, oh Heaven_ please, _I need you so fucking much!_

 _You are_ mine _, Crowley,_ Aziraphale snarled with all of his mouths. _Mine to love, mine to protect, mine to hurt and mine to keep safe. Have I made myself very, very clear?_

 _Crystal!_ He cried, euphoric and more than a little terrified which, if anything, only fueled his arousal and desire for the angel grinding him halfway into stardust. 

Aziraphale seemed to take that as the explicit permission it was to claim him more thoroughly, with all the sacred profanity that came of a demon and angel merging as one on the most intimate levels on every plane of existence. _As much as I adore this, I think it's high time you came here and held me, don't you?_

 _Fuck yes,_ Crowley hissed, unwinding himself so quickly he nearly got tied into knots. _Anything you want angel, you know that._

For all his talk of wanting to be held somehow Aziraphale was surrounding him, both inside Crowley and around him and part of him all at the same time, though that may have been a consequence of the way their essences were blurring together like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Crowley was moving with him, as though they were binary stars encircling the barycentre of their love which had held them in place for so very long, and together they made the sacred domain of the ether shine.

 _Am I your idol, my darling?_ Aziraphale asked, luxuriating into the not remotely gentle constriction of Crowley's true form like it was a particularly indulgent bubble bath and not roughly half an eternity of desperately aroused Fallen Seraph. _Would you burn incense, offer me gold and lambs’ blood?_

 _Don't I already angel?_ Crowley replied, twisting around and _in_ him like a snake enjoying a sunbeam. _And you know full well I'll keep bringing you crêpes and merlot and snuffboxes and sushi and books until the sun goes out and the universe goes cold, and even then I'll just keep on bringing all the dead iron stars left over to pile upon your altar. You only ever have to want something and I'll get it for you, because you deserve everything_ _that Creation has to offer and more._

Aziraphale giggled. _And you want to be the one to give it to me, don't you my love?_

_Of course I do,_ Crowley confessed, the rapid approach of transcendental climax finally shaking him free of the restraining shackles of anxiety.[55] _You're_ everything, _Aziraphale. There is no possible way for you to understand how much you changed my existence that day, changed me, but I'll be repaying it forever, gladly. It doesn't matter what happens, I will_ always _have faith in you._

There wasn't any higher truth as far as Crowley was concerned. It had been true ever since he'd stood on a wall in the rain, looked across at the angel holding a beautiful white wing which smelt quite literally like Heaven over him like a shield, and realised he was in trouble.[56]

_Aziraphale_ , he sang, because when you were like this all you could really do was sing or scream, for always. _Angel, I love you so much._

 _I know my dearest Crowley,_ Aziraphale serenaded him in return, a duet building between them which was as old as the world and fragile as a new seedling sprouting through the earth. _And I love you._

Somehow their vibrations were aligning, which shouldn’t be possible considering they were nominally two equal but opposing forces of nature, but just like Aziraphale had pointed out they’d already done a lot of things which shouldn’t be possible for angels and demons to do together over the years and apparently this was no different. 

Everything which made Crowley himself and everything which made Aziraphale who he was were merging, and it was absolutely the most intimate thing he’d ever felt. Not even his fragmented memories of Before could equal this, not being kindled into existence by Her hand or even being a part of the chorus of angelic voices which had attended the birth of Creation and midwifed the stars. Crowley was of the opinion that even if they hadn’t been so desaturated of all emotional context after his Fall from Grace they still couldn’t have surpassed the feeling of him and Aziraphale finally, _finally_ having nothing between them anymore. Now more than ever they were on their own side, no more secrets and nothing held back. Well, almost nothing.

 _You can let go, Crowley,_ said Aziraphale, as gentle and as unrelenting as the Almighty had been when She first said let there be light, and brushed against that last tangled snarl of fear hidden away. _I won't let you fall, not ever again._

Crowley sobbed just once, sinking his myriad jaws into every piece of Aziraphale he could reach and releasing his essence to let it ignite into a blistering conflagration. The agonised, crescendoing bliss of his relief burned through the both of them along with Aziraphale's own, and together they came like the world was ending.

* * *

Footnotes

48It was a good thing Aziraphale was much stronger than he looked, and that they both had a bit of ethereal/occult magic up their metaphorical sleeves to assist if needed. Though the fact that Aziraphale didn't seem to really need it at all was so many kinds of hot Crowley was frankly kind of embarrassed about it, and desperately hoped his angel was far too busy with balancing needy demon handling and tea logistics to notice.[return to text]

49But then again, he’d spent far too many endless centuries doing that already, hadn’t he? Crowley was finally free to let it all out now, all those feelings he’d stuffed down for so very long and never let properly see the light of day, and he decided on the spot that he fully intended to spend the next 6000 years making his all-consuming adoration and constant bouts of angel-induced stupidity Aziraphale's problem. It was only fair someone else shared the load after all, especially when the someone in question was the reason for said stupidity happening at all.[return to text]

50As though it hadn't been longer than forever since he'd last done this, as though the first object of his unconditional love hadn't ended it all by ripping Her own from him and casting him down into damnation.[return to text]

51Had anyone, come to think of it? While he was desperately curious, Crowley decided to leave that for when he could string more thoughts together than just hhnnnggggkk and holy blessed fuck that is hot.[return to text]

52And given they were both technically free agents now, it very well might have been. (There were definitely worse jobs to have, Crowley thought to himself in the tiniest corner of his mind which was currently capable of any kind of coherent thought at all.)[return to text]

53Seraphim were called the burning ones for a reason. It's an unacknowledged truth, but few Seraphim Fell and even fewer survived it. Those that could pull themselves away from the blissful adulation of attending the Throne long enough to develop much in the way of a personality or independent thought were often the ones like Crowley charged with responsibilities during the Creation of the universe. Even then though, few had the ongoing freedom which he’d had, the literal space with which to develop into someone even capable of asking questions. He didn't know it (no one did, except Her of course but She's not telling) but the fact is that even as Fallen as he was Crowley could probably still have burned the world down around himself if he truly wanted to, though it would have been the end for him as well. So it's lucky really that he didn't, that he had never wanted to do anything of the sort and never would.[return to text]

54It goes without saying that he didn't want to. There was possibly nothing he'd wanted less in his entire life. [return to text]

55Crowley wouldn't realise until later that the not remotely metaphorical silver chain around his neck which had been there since Lucifer had claimed him after the Fall had disappeared as well, along with the worst of the Infernal silver branding around the neck of his trueform. He could unmanifest the chain for a bit if he needed to (such as wanting to enjoying being ravished by his angel without the literal Hellish reminder hanging between them) but apparently not even the Morningstar could keep his taloned grip on something which Aziraphale had decided was his.[return to text]

56But oh, what else could someone like Crowley do when faced with that kind of trouble, but follow to see where it led? It had been so long and he still hadn't found the end of the road, and to his growing delight he suspected he never would.[return to text]


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally at the end, and I can't even believe it.   
> I'm currently having trouble with my eyes and can't even take a brief look at a screen without them unfocusing and causing sudden onset migraines (writing this was no fun at all) but the chapter was finished before this problem started I still wanted it up so y'all could read the ending. I will post the full list of links to all my lovely collaborators in the end note in a couple of days when I can imbed the html links without actually crying. 
> 
> So much hugs and love to everyone involved on my team, everyone who supported me on the journey to get this done, the organisers of the Good Omens Big Bang, and every single one of you reading this ♡

"You know,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully some time later. “I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about being likened to a natural disaster."

They were back in the bookshop and back in their corporations by now, though they’d migrated upstairs to Aziraphale’s pokey little flat where they were enjoying a nice, long bubble bath in a lovely clawfoot tub big enough for two, which had been quite surprised to find itself existing when they opened the door to the mostly unused bathroom. Crowley had quickly decided upon getting in that soaking in hot water which smelled kind of like Christmas with a very soft, very naked angel cuddling him from behind was the best thing ever, and still refused to let them move hours later. Which was why he was understandably confused by the sudden detour from their previous conversation about baclava to discuss his weird kinks. 

"Wha-? No that's not it, that's not what I meant at all."

"So how else could I interpret it, then?"

Crowley splashed a large bubble wave at the rubber duck he’d been trying to capsize without resorting to miracles, which was a very evil thing to do and definitely not any fun at all. "Well...natural disaster, s'not really the right words, yeah? You're more like a force of nature. Something powerful and beautiful and inevitable."

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, saving the rubber duck at the last minute. "I do see where you’re coming from. But we're not exactly natural anything though, are we, dearest?"

"Why not?” He huffed, mildly annoyed his duck plans had been thwarted. “Natural, well it basically means something which exists in or comes from nature instead of something made by humans, and we were definitely here before the humans were. Before anything really, except Her."

"I'm not sure I follow, angels and demons--"

"Nah, s'got nothing to do with angels or demons really, does it? It's us, just us. Like all those bastards kept saying, we’ve gone native. Been here so bloody long, longer than anyone else for sure, probably even longer than most of the geological formations by this point." Crowley stretched languidly and wiggled into a more comfortable position on his angelic pillow, liking where this train of thought was going. "We're part of the ecosystem by now, angel, part of the Earth and all its kingdoms thereof. We're a force of nature because this is our home more than Heaven or Hell ever were, and in our own way we help keep it all moving forward just like we help keep each other in balance, to make sure everything else keeps ticking along just as it should."

Aziraphale was silent for a bit, then, thoughtful even as he nuzzled lazily into Crowley’s neck and pressed kisses against his sweat- and water-damp flesh where he still wore the marks inflicted by Aziraphale’s lion head. They were healing almost human slow thanks to the caustic effect holy weapons (which the teeth technically were) had on him, and Crowley had already privately decided he was going to let them scar. 

“Well… Be that as it may, I still feel a bit… _bad_ for how thoroughly I, ah, _destroyed_ you.” He sounded almost sheepish, and Crowley turned his head a bit to arch a somewhat unimpressed brow at his attempt at an apology. Undeterred, Aziraphale continued. “You see, the longer I’m in a particular corporation, the easier it is for me to temper my… _instincts_ . My possessive, even _aggressive_ urges. And, given I’ve been in this body for such a very short period of time, I haven’t quite managed to smooth out all those rough edges just yet, and I--”

“Angel, shut up and kiss me.” Aziraphale was only too happy to comply, and then they were a bit distracted all over again with the way their bodies slid wetly against one another. But when they were done, he finally added, “I like it, _ssso...”_ A quick little shrug, once again attempting to hide his embarrassment at how much he _enjoyed_ being man-handled (or demon handled) by his angel.

“...Oh.” Aziraphale breathed, looking more than a little dazed that Crowley was not only so accepting of his quirks, but seemed to actually be partial to them.

Crowley was of the opinion that the only thing which could have possibly made the sex better was if the rain had been able to miraculously pour down on them without risking the books, but then again, on second thought maybe this was better. He'd been losing himself in storms for millennia to drown out all the pain and noise in his head (and yes, occasionally himself), so maybe the fact that now he could listen to the thunder while finally being sheltered under his angel's wings again was a sign. That this was to be a new Beginning for both of them, together.

"Well, you don't actually have to if you don't want to you know," Crowley mumbled apropos of nothing after another little while of pleasant soaking as the sun began to rise. "Er, unless you do. Want to, that is."

Aziraphale blinked quizzically at him, distracted from his contemplation of Crowley’s collarbones. "I beg your pardon?"

"I jussst mean that you have options now," said Crowley, trailing off and feeling mortified at the fact he was still talking and didn't seem to be able to stop. "Up to you, of course, it's your corporation and all. Actually you know what don't mind me, I'm full of shit."

"Crowley?"

He sunk deeper into the bubbles until they half covered his face. "Ngljfk." 

“You know, you’re actually very sweet when you think no one is paying attention.” Aziraphale noted, smirking wickedly and making something in Crowley (the part which loved his bastard streak so much it was probably illegal somewhere) wonder if there was going to be the opportunity for a round two (or three, or possibly it was technically round eight by now) sooner rather than later, because _bless it_ he was beautiful.

“I am not.” He grumbled, giving up on the bubbles and instead turning around hide his face in soft, thoroughly obliging angel.

“Hush now,” Aziraphale scolded, poking him in the side and surprising Crowley enough that he squirmed in a very undignified manner. “You won’t change my mind with your pouting, no matter how endearing it is.”

“M’not pouting!” He argued, most definitely pouting.

Aziraphale beamed like his very own private sun, and all thoughts of further protests died on his lips before they were even fully formed. Maybe for Aziraphale he could be sweet, strictly in private and only when the angel was particularly cuddly and he felt like it. Maybe being vulnerable around him wasn’t the end of the world like some deep, scared part of him insisted. They’d already faced that, after all, and they were still here.

That particular thought was humbling, and Crowley felt himself shudder because _they were still here._ Armaggeddon wasn’t far off or breathing down their necks as time ticked away, it was over and done with and they’d _won._ They’d won for the earth and the humans and for each other, and they were finally here and finally free to just be themselves, and be together.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale must have noticed that he’d fallen silent, lost in the twisting corridors of his own thoughts. “Darling, are you still with me?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, voice cracking a little, and Aziraphale just hugged him tighter and kissed his forehead. It was everything he’d ever wanted, for as close to forever as never mind, and it was finally his. “Yeah angel, I’m here.”

“Good,” he huffed, somehow managing to pull Crowley closer and wrap him up even tighter in his embrace, as if he was temporarily the one with the nebulous concept of functional limbs. “Because I have no intention of letting you wiggle away from me ever again, do you hear me, you wily serpent? Not for anything. You’re mine and I will not let anything separate us ever again.”

Crowley squeaked, honest to Someone _squeaked,_ and burrowed even further into his arms until he was curled around Aziraphale’s corporation not unlike how he’d been in their true forms.

Aziraphale paused in his petting, as if he was feeling decidedly embarrassed about his earnest bossiness. “Is this acceptable to you, Crowley?” 

There were choirs singing hallelujah in the next room, that had to be why he simultaneously felt like he was floating up into the sky while still remaining safely here in his most favourite place on earth. The storm was finally over, and for once he didn't even miss it. “Yeah angel, that sounds perfect.”


End file.
